A Favorable Wind
by Court81981
Summary: Historical AU: in 1832, sixteen-year-old Katniss Everdeen boards The Mockingjay, bound for her family home in America. What awaits her is a perilous journey, one which will find her caught in a rebellion, accused of murder, and falling in love with sailor Peeta Mellark. Cover art by Kismet4891; Banner by RoNordmann h t t p : / /tinyurl . com / AFW-banner (remove spaces)
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note:** _So it's come to this: this wonderful, amazing, talented fandom has this girl writing again after a nearly ten year hiatus. My, how things have changed since Buffy. This story was inspired by a children's book that I teach to my gifted section of literature. I won't reference its full title, as I do not want it hijacking any legitimate searches students may do on that novel. But it is by Avi and the main character is named Charlotte, and that should give curious readers enough. The characters in this story belong to Suzanne Collins, but the words are my own. Any books Katniss references in the story belong to their original authors.

I would be remiss if I did not give credit to the two ladies who have held my hand throughout this whole process: the indomitable jeeno2 and the inspiring ILoveRynMar. Thank you for the encouragement, the laughs and the therapy.

This story is nearly complete, so I am hopeful I can keep to a regular posting schedule. I am sorry...no tumblr. Lame, I know.

Thank you for reading. -Court

Rated M for later content (violence, language, sexual situations)

**Prologue**

To fully understand and appreciate the ordeal from which I have finally been freed, you must fully comprehend where my journey began. My name is Katniss Everdeen. Or rather, it was Katniss Everdeen. The Katniss Everdeen that existed for 16 years ceased to be that fateful summer of 1832. I boarded a ship a young lady, eager to return home to the loving embraces of my father, my mother and my precious sister, Primrose. Though American by birth, my parents sent me to England at the tender age of eight, knowing I would receive a much better education abroad. (America was only just establishing private academies for girls in 1824.)

It is only because of a bound book of paper that I am able to convince myself that what happened to me was not a fantastical dream, some sort of nightmare from which I nearly did not escape. My father, in a letter detailing my anticipated trip home, instructed me to keep a journal of my daily activities so that I might properly reflect on my time at sea once I arrived home in Philadelphia. He warned me he would be reading the volume and examining my penmanship, my grammar and my spelling. I should confess that no amount of practice has ever much improved my penmanship.

Two months later, I departed that ship a pardoned criminal, my name cleared as a murderess only after an arduous trial and at the expense of several lives.

And yet, knowing where I am now, what my life became after that momentous voyage, I would not change a thing. Not one.

This is my story. Every word I speak is true.

**Chapter 1 **

_13 June 1832, Liverpool, England_

"…built fifty years ago in Baltimore, Maryland. I wouldn't have thought such fine craftsmanship possible of something constructed in the colonies, but she is exquisite, is she not? Miss Everdeen?"

"Pardon?" I turn and meet the disapproving eyes of my chaperone, Miss Ephrenia Trinket. The older woman purses her lips before pressing them into a forced smile.

"I was introducing you to your ship, Miss Everdeen," Miss Trinket clucks, gesturing grandly to the imposing vessel anchored several yards down the gangplank among a throng of other ships.

I squint and let my eyes focus on the ship. I hardly remembered sailing to England as a child eight years earlier, and while at boarding school, I never had much cause to be in the presence of such a ship. Miss Trinket is right. _The Mockingjay_ is indeed exquisite. The ship is what one would call a brig, a two-masted vessel. An obviously-fresh coat of glossy white paint causes the ship to gleam in the sunlight, and its rails and bow shine black as coal. The sails are reefed, the gentle breeze having no effect on them as a result.

I have to admit it is the unusual name that intrigues me most. I have never heard of a mockingjay. I have seen mockingbirds, and I have seen blue jays, but upon closer inspection of the figurehead, I can only surmise that this ship's commissioner must have enjoyed Frankenstein. (We shall not speak of how I am acquainted with that novel.) That is the only conceivable explanation for the hybrid creature that adorns the front of the ship. I have never seen a bird quite like the one that juts out beneath the bowsprit. Its mouth is open in an obscene shriek, and if it is possible for a bird to appear terrifying, this one does for certain. I feel a shiver consume me in spite of the June sunshine.

"It's lovely," I reply. Miss Trinket clucks her tongue again.

"She, Miss Everdeen. She. A ship is not an "it." It's as much a lady as you or I."

"I shall make note of that." I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, and I am well aware that it is not good etiquette to roll my eyes. I chide myself for thinking that Miss Trinket can be very difficult to tolerate at times, however true it may be.

"Now where is that porter?" Miss Trinket cranes her neck and flutters her fan in front of her face several times as I watch her scan the busy dock. "Ah, there he is. Young man!"

Truth be told, I find myself more in awe of the dock than the ship. It is as far a cry from the Panem School for Better Girls and its stone walls, wrought-iron fences and crawling ivy, and quaint topiaries. I could not have known such a sight could exist beyond the pages of a fictional novel. There are crates piled high everywhere I look, crates brimming with exports bound for the islands and beyond, America. The aroma of tea leaves and coffee beans creates a heady brew in the air, and I'm startled to hear the squawks of parrots and the screeches of at least one monkey. Molasses. Rum. Brocade cloth. Silk. I try to contain an audible gasp as I peer into a half-open crate and my eyes land upon glittering diamonds and opaque pearls.

"Miss Everdeen?" I shake myself from my reverie and am again met with a disapproving glance from Miss Trinket. She gestures to the man who is now carrying my valise in one hand and preparing to haul my trunk with the other.

"Thank you, sir," I smile politely.

"Which ship, miss?" the porter asks, directing the question at me, but Miss Trinket is quick to answer.

"_The Mockingjay,"_ she replies with a haughty flourish. "Helmed by one Captain Snow." The porter's eyes widen, and he lets go of both the trunk and the valise, sending the bag to the dock with a _thump_. I jump at the noise.

"I'll not set foot near that ship, miss," he declares, taking several steps back from where Miss Trinket and I gape at him in disbelief.

"Well, I never!" Miss Trinket shrills. "Pick up those bags, young man. You were given six pence to carry Miss Everdeen's belongings." The porter shakes his head vehemently and plunges his hand into his right pocket. He thrusts his fist forward and reaches for Miss Trinket's hand, dropping the coins into her white-gloved palm.

"I wouldn't take one more step near any ship captained by _Mr. _Snow." He spits the name as if it was poison. Without another word, he spins on his heel and takes off down the dock, weaving in and out of the jumbled cargo as nimbly as a mouse. I am stunned by the man's audacity, but I glance at Miss Trinket out of the corner of my eye. Her painted-pink lips are barely visible so tightly are they pressed together, and her corkscrew curls spring as she begins to scan the crowd once more.

"You!" she cries, pointing at a burly man moving a large sack of rice across the dock just a few feet away from them. "I have a shilling for you if you will kindly carry this young lady's belongings to her ship."

"A shilling?" he barks, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Two shillings," I pipe up, reaching for my reticule. It is certainly an inconvenience for him to stop his current task, so perhaps a higher offer will raise his spirits and his disposition. Miss Trinket shoots me her third disapproving glare, but I ignore the scornful look and withdraw a shilling to match Miss Trinket's offer.

"Aye, two shillings," the man agrees, taking the coin from me. He extends his hand towards Miss Trinket, who mumbles something as she produces the second shilling. The man winks at me, and I can feel my cheeks flush at the gesture. I am not used to the presence of such a rough looking man, and I know the wink is not a sign that should be directed at a lady of my station. Nonetheless, it provides me a secret thrill, one I have never experienced thus far in my life. There is _so much_ beyond the Panem School for me to discover.

I notice that Miss Trinket and the man have begun walking, so I follow them along the dock until we come to a stop in front of the _Mockingjay_. No sooner have we stopped walking then, just as the first porter had, the man drops my trunk and valise without a word and disappears into the crowd. A feeling of unease creeps into my bones.

"Where are the manners?" Miss Trinket cries. "Honestly. You see, Miss Everdeen, these are the men we warn you about at Panem. Common men have no manners and no decency. Not even a proper bow from that horrid man." She smoothes her dress along her hips and gives me a purposeful smile. "Now you know why your father and mother would not hear of you sailing without companions. That ship will be full of the roughest men you will ever set eyes on. Sailors, Miss Everdeen, are the lowest of the low."

I sigh inwardly and smile politely as Miss Trinket drones on, and I begin to study _The Mockingjay_ at this closer vantage. I am immediately struck dumb at how massive it seems now that I am standing beside it. I swallow nervously at the thought of being at sea for so many months. I have never coped well with nausea, and I fear getting seasick. It shall be a long journey home to Philadelphia.

"Now where is the first mate? I was promised by the Captain himself that his first mate would be here to accept you."

"Will my companions already be on board?" I ask, adjusting my own white gloves and pushing back a stray curl that has sought refuge from my bonnet.

When my father had made the arrangements for me to travel home on one of his company's ships, he had explained to me that it would not be proper for a young lady to sail with just the complement of a crew. Yes, the captain would be a gentleman of similar station, but his first responsibility would be to the ship, and he could not be expected to keep me occupied at all times. Nor was I to distract him from his duties to his post. Thus, my father had secured passage for two families to join me on the voyage to America. I know nothing of either family save both have young children, and I will be expected to read to the children from my morality books and the Bible. I can still picture my father's immaculate script on the parchment: _strive to be a role model…honor our family name_…

"I do not know, Miss Everdeen. Your ship is not scheduled to depart until day break tomorrow, so they still have ample time to arrive."

"Are you Miss Trinket?" a male voice interjects. I turn and see a tall, but slight, man walking towards us up the dock, clutching a small valise. He sets the bag down at his feet and tents his fingers, studying my chaperone. His mutton-chops curve inward in an intricate pattern, and his dark eyes glitter as they pass over Miss Trinket. He is not dressed as I would expect a sailor to be dressed. His jacket is pressed and reaches nearly mid-thigh and his breeches are tucked into a pair of gleaming black boots. Had I not known better, I might have assumed this was our captain.

"I am," she replies airily. "Are you Captain Snow's first mate?"

"I am." He extends a hand. Miss Trinket hesitates, but accepts it nonetheless. He raises her gloved hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the fabric. "Mr. Seneca Crane, at your service." He offers me a warm smile, and I curtsy respectfully. Miss Trinket's expression relaxes, and she smiles broadly. I cannot recall seeing her smile so readily since we left the gates of Panem.

"A gentleman, Miss Everdeen! How fortunate for you. It's not typical for a ship to have such a distinguished man among the crew. What brings you to sea, Mr. Crane?"

"This is actually my first commercial voyage, Miss Trinket," Mr. Crane explains. "I sailed with Her Majesty's navy for several years."

Miss Trinket squeals. "An officer! Oh, Miss Everdeen, how exciting!"

I nod absently, surprised to discover I am only half listening; rather, I am hypnotized by a movement just beyond Mr. Crane's left shoulder. I can't be sure of what exactly it is that my eyes are seeing, but just below the stern of the ship, I swear I can see something, (_someone?)_ shimmying up a mooring rope. I cannot reconcile what I am watching, and at once, my mind recollecs a photograph in Miss Portia's numerous science volumes of a chimpanzee swinging from a vine.

Had I not heard the chatter of a monkey earlier? Could the monkey have somehow escaped its enclosure? I narrow my eyes in the sunlight in an attempt to get a better look. The rope sways with the weight of the body clinging to it, and I decide it's much too large to be an animal. A human, then? Why would someone be boarding the ship in such a manner? I blink once, blink again, and suddenly, the rope is still. _Tis nothing,_ I decide, scolding myself. _You're seeing things_.

"Miss Everdeen!" The annoyance is clear in Miss Trinket's voice this time, an exasperated look marring her porcelain features. I duck my head slightly, ashamed I have been caught being so outwardly rude to my chaperone. "I was just saying it is time for me to bid you farewell. Mr. Crane will occupy your time until your companions arrive."

"Thank you so much for accompanying me, Miss Trinket." I place my hands on her slender shoulders and draw her towards me into a tentative hug. Miss Trinket is not one for showing affection, save for the fact that embracing her too tightly would wrinkle her gown. She catches me by surprise when she releases me but grips my gloved hands in hers, eyes locking on mine.

"You are a delightful young woman, Miss Everdeen. We shall miss you greatly at Panem. I bid you a safe and swift journey home." I nod and smile tightly, blinking back tears that I think are more the result of anxiety towards being left in the company of strangers rather than a genuine sadness at leaving Miss Trinket. Mr. Crane looks perfectly gentlemanly, but I have never, not for a moment, been alone in the company of a man. The only male who frequented the halls of Panem was Reverend Templesmith. And he was ancient.

My stomach twists as I watch Miss Trinket hand Mr. Crane a folded slip of paper, then walk stiffly back to the coach. The paneled door closes, and my last tie to the world I have known for the last eight years is gone. My corset suddenly feels too tight, and it is a struggle to draw a breath.

"My companions have not yet arrived?" I manage to whisper. Mr. Crane turns and offers me a wry smile, his obsidian eyes glinting like smoldering coal.

"I have not seen them yet, no, Miss Everdeen," he responds. I cannot keep the frown from my face, and Mr. Crane's own expression is instantly sympathetic. "Relax, my lady, I'll ensure your company will be well kept once you are safely aboard." His words do little to comfort me, and I am once again seized by the panic that I am in the presence of complete strangers, _strangers who are men._

"Thank you." I hardly recognize my own voice, sounding more pathetic than I have ever heard it before.

"Now if you will be so kind to wait here, I shall just be a moment as I check in with the captain." He reaches down and retrieves his bag, and purposefully strides up the gangplank. I sigh and try to compose myself, my trembling fingers combing back more stray hairs that have sought freedom from my bonnet in the warm air. I have not been alone on the dock for more than several minutes when the din of voices rises sharply above me. Glancing up, I can just see Mr. Crane at the topgallant rail, gesturing wildly as he argues with an unseen opponent. A frisson dances along my spine as Mr. Crane outwardly motions down at me. Am I the source of some disagreement?

I do not have adequate time to consider the implications before Mr. Crane is suddenly beside me once more.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Crane?"

"Nothing too serious, Miss Everdeen. I've been assured by the second mate that we are on schedule for our morning departure. Our cargo is loaded, the crew is present, and the captain is ready to sail." He clears his throat and his prominent Adam's apple bobs just above the collar of his shirt. "There is one slight problem." He pauses again, and my breath catches in my own throat. "The families…your companions…it seems that there is a delay in their subsequent arrivals."

"A delay?" I stammer, shaking my head at the possibility. Mr. Crane coughs and lowers his eyes.

"Perhaps it's not a delay," he sighs. "I've been informed that neither family will be making the voyage to America." I gasp, and in spite of its rudeness, my mouth gapes in disbelief much like a fish out of water, struggling for every breath.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Mr. Thread, the second mate, received word that one family has a gravely ill child. The other family has simply changed their minds about leaving London."

"Changed their minds?" I echo dumbly. "That cannot be! What shall I do?"

"I am not sure I understand the question, Miss Everdeen."

"What shall I do!" I parrot again, panic welling in my chest. "My father would not wish me to travel alone!" Mr. Crane's lips curl into what I would describe as a smirk.

"Alone? You shall have a captain, a first and second mate, and a full crew, Miss Everdeen. You shall hardly be _alone_." I am taken aback by his snide reply to me.

"That is not what I mean!" I refrain from stamping my foot like a petulant child. "My father would not wish me to sail all the way to America with men. I am but a girl!" I cringe at the word because at sixteen, I much prefer to consider myself a lady, almost a woman. But in the interest of decorum, I do not hesitate to use semantics to my advantage.

"You shall have Captain Snow, Miss Everdeen, and you shall have me. We will be your eyes and ears and ensure no one does you any harm. No one shall even direct a misguided glance your way in our presence." His words provide me with little consolation. I cannot help but imagine my father's horror at learning how his daughter was returned to him.

"But Mr. Crane, it's wrong!" My cries fall on deaf ears, as Mr. Crane withdraws a gold pocket watch and studies the face intently. He snaps it shut, replaces it and gesticulates widely behind us.

"Miss Everdeen, your ship awaits."

Sullenly and reluctantly, I follow Mr. Crane up the gangplank, being careful to watch my footing on the wooden slats. At the top, we are met by another man, one who more resembles my romantic notion of what a "classic" sailor should look like. He is small; Mr. Crane is easily a full head taller than he, and his bronzed skin is an obvious sign of his daily exposure to the sun. The scratchy remnants of a beard dot his cheeks and chin, and I can see the cracks in his chapped lips this close to him. His eyes wander from side to side rapidly, looking everywhere but at me directly, but I can tell he is still studying me with suspicion.

"Miss Everdeen, Captain Snow is unavailable at the moment. May I present to you the second mate, Mr. Romulus Thread?" I wait for him to address me with some sort of gesture befitting a lady of my station, but he makes no motion to do so.

"Miss Everdeen, you should not be here," Thread announces, his voice surprisingly loud and clear for a man with such a haggard appearance.

"Mr. Thread, do not be absurd," Mr. Crane chides, laughing nervously. "Where else should she be?"

"There are a number of ships on this dock that are making voyages to America. You would be better off, miss, on one of those ships."

I am relieved to hear the suggestion; I am resolute in the notion that my parents would not want me sailing in the company of these men. Mr. Thread's less-than-desirous appearance has affirmed this notion for me.

"This ship is one of my father's," I offer, "but I can assure you my father would not be pleased if I were to sail without companions of…" I catch myself. No doubt these men cannot be daft enough to know what I am implying without me having to state the obvious.

"And your father, Mr. Everdeen, has made no other arrangements for you," Mr. Crane adds. "Your passage on this ship has already been paid for. Miss Trinket signed for you, and she has fulfilled her obligation by turning you over to our careful watch." He waves the paper Miss Trinket had handed him prior to her returning to her coach, and my stomach twists painfully. My well-being (and ultimately, my honor and my life) has been treated as cavalierly as a crate of tea or tobacco.

"We set sail at daybreak," Mr. Crane declares, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few things to which to tend." He is gone before I can utter a protest. I am suddenly intensely aware of the sailor still at my side, and I slide my eyes to meet those of Mr. Thread. He is now glaring at me openly.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he mutters. "Very well, Miss Everdeen, I guess it's my duty to show you to your cabin." He makes a move to his right, and when I do not immediately follow him, his glare increases in intensity.

"I'm sorry, sir," I begin, not able to stop the word from slipping past my lips. I reprimand myself immediately. This man does not deserve such a term, and I shall be infinitely more careful to reserve its usage for when I am in the presence of Captain Snow and Mr. Crane.

"What?"

"My trunk and my valise. They are still on the dock."

"We will see to it that they are brought on board, miss. You have my word."

I sigh, but it is the best I can expect. Mr. Thread moves again, and I grudgingly follow him this time. I reprimand myself once more, this time for being such a good girl, for not being more vocal about my unease being aboard this ship. The irony of the situation is my father would no doubt find some pleasure in my obedience.

I notice that he has produced a lantern, which is now lighting our way as we pass through a narrow opening in the wall of the quarterdeck towards a flight of steps that might as well lead to the gates of Hell. As I move to descend the stairs, I notice much of the crew is now assembled on the forecastle deck, pounding something into the planks with mallets (I learn later it is called oakum, and I eventually acquire most of the other sailing terms and ship geography that I will record here) or applying more tar to the rails. Several of them exchange muted murmurs, and I feel scornful glances cast in my direction. I raise my chin and look straight ahead.

"Steerage, miss," Mr. Thread intones as he leads me through the space. It is barely six feet wide, and I estimate it can't be more than twenty or thirty feet in length. The mainmast bisects the area, a massive plank of wood that, should I try, I should not be able to wrap my arms but halfway around. There are a few doors on either side of the mainmast, but without the lantern, it would be pitch black. My ears are highly attuned to the repeated scratching against the floorboards and the periodic creaks and moans of the wood. Though I discover I have been holding my breath and exhale shakily, when I inhale moments later my nostrils are invaded by the pungent stench of rot and a stale scent of urine. I gag and draw my handkerchief from the bodice of my gown, pressing it to my mouth eagerly. I am relieved it is there when I am frozen with horror as something moves over my left boot and I release a silent scream.

I swear I see Mr. Thread hold back a smile in the dimly lit space.

We reach the end of the hallway, and he stops in front of a door that is slightly ajar. He pushes it open and motions grandly.

"Your cabin, Miss Everdeen." I offer him a tight-lipped smile as he raises the lantern to better illuminate the place I will call home for the next eight or nine weeks.

I cannot stifle the anguished cry that escapes my lips as I regard my cabin. It is barely larger than a linen closet, and there is no furniture save for a slim shelf jutting out from the wall opposite the door. My lower lip begins to tremble at the sight of the small pillow and folded blanket on the shelf. This, I realize, is to be my bed.

"This would cost a passenger five pounds, miss. Why don't you go in and get acquainted with the room?"

Room! I choke back a laugh at his audacity to call it such. Drawing in a breath as much for courage as for oxygen (and thankfully the smell has subsided nearer to my cabin) I stoop to enter and am dismayed to discover I can barely stand fully in the confined space. I am not an exceptionally tall girl, so this speaks volumes of the dimensions of the cabin. Once inside the room, I notice there is a makeshift chest built into the bulwark wall, and my fingers gingerly touch a rusted latch that releases a hinge, transforming the chest into a crude writing desk.

My heart nearly stops when the cockroach scuttles across the surface of the desk. I turn to Mr. Thread, my eyes wide and my mouth agape in revulsion. "Every ship has them," is his nonchalant response. I shudder visibly and direct my attention back to the sparse space. There is no chair. There is no lamp. There is no porthole. The notion that the cabin will be plunged into darkness without a lantern or a candle is suddenly all too real, and I'm struck with the vision of the room as a coffin, stifling and strangling the life from me.

A large thump just behind the open door startles me from my ghastly thoughts. I peer around the door frame and instead of seeing Mr. Thread, I am greeted by the sight of another sailor. Indeed, Mr. Thread is nowhere to be seen. Though this man's clothes are as tattered as Mr. Thread's were, he is nowhere near as decrepit-looking. There is a hardness to his steely eyes, which are partially obscured by the shaggy, greasy hair that is falling over his forehead.

"Yes?" I whisper.

"Your trunk, sweetheart." His gravelly voice does not take me aback as much as the manner in which he addresses me. To say that I am shocked by his crudeness is an understatement. I glance around him to see my enormous trunk and the smaller valise just behind him. As relieved as I am to see my possessions, I am equally dismayed at their sight. My eyes survey the cabin, and the sailor seems to immediately sense the meaning of my wordless gesture.

"I'd say you'd be hard-pressed to fit that in here, no?" He reaches down and picks up my valise. I accept it, knowing it contains nothing beyond a few more handkerchiefs, a photograph of my family and the journal my father bade me to keep. I shake my head, and his lips curve into a sardonic smile. "Top cargo it is then. It won't be too difficult for you to retrieve things as you need them from there."

"Top cargo?" I repeat. He might as well have said Persia.

"I can show you when the time comes." He glances around, and I wait for him to retreat. But he does not.

"Yes?"

"Pardon my forwardness, sweetheart, but I gotta tell you that you really shouldn't be here."

"You are the second person to say such a thing to me." A quiver of fear slithers up my spine, and I shiver involuntarily in spite of the oppressive heat of the ship. "Why?" He takes a step towards me, and I instinctively back away, but in the tight space, he looms over me, fixing those grey eyes on me again. I cannot help but notice that in the muted light of the lantern, they appear to be a similar shade to my own. The reek of stale ale is heavy on his breath.

"The others asked me to. I was deputized, if you will. I know it's not my place to say it, but it's too important. Your presence on this ship can lead to no good. There is still time, sweetheart." There is a lilt of urgency to his rough voice.

"Mr…" I pause, at a loss as to how to address this man who never presented himself formally to me.

"Haymitch," he replies. "Haymitch Abernathy."

"Mr. Abernathy," I continue, refusing to call him by his Christian name. Crass sailor or not, I can hear Miss Trinket's voice echoing in my ears to address my elders by their proper name in conversation. "My father has made the arrangements for me to be on this ship." Mustering all my strength to straighten my back and square my shoulders, I turn away from him, ignoring my trepidation and the overwhelming urge to scream to be allowed off the vessel.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." I hear his footfalls begin to fade away, rhythmic bumps from my trunk that he is no doubt hauling behind him punctuating each step.

A smothered sob escapes my throat, and hot tears prick the corners of my eyes. I move to close the cabin door, but upon doing so, I am left in absolute blackness. Instead, I push the door as wide as it will go, letting in the meager light that streams down through the stairwell at the opposite end of steerage. My body trembles violently, wracked with great, heaving ugly sobs. My knees buckle, and I stagger to the plank, (I refuse yet to call it my bed) intending to lie down and let sleep overtake me. Perhaps if I close my eyes, I will awaken and this will all be revealed as a horrific dream. It is only when I am standing beside the plank that I realize it is impossible to climb onto it in my garments.

I try not to think of the cockroach I saw earlier as I sink to my knees and let the sobs consume me.

I have never felt more alone in all my sixteen years.

How long I cry I cannot say, but a gentle knock at the door rouses me. Sniffling, I withdraw my handkerchief again and blow my nose before I whisper a barely audible, "Yes?"

Before me stands yet another sailor. Though his clothes are as tattered as Mr. Thread's were, he is nowhere near as decrepit-looking. He is smaller than Mr. Abernathy, but his gold-flecked eyes exude a warmth that was wholly absent from the crass sailor's countenance. His skin is the color of café au lait, and I find myself thinking there is something beautiful about him. The thought alarms me.

"You are upset, young miss," he says gently, and I can imagine my tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes have me looking like some sort of demonic ghoul.

"I am fine," I reply, rising to my feet and adjusting the buttons on my bodice inconspicuously.

"Begging your pardon for interrupting, then, but I thought you might like some tea. A small comfort that I might offer you, miss." His golden eyes dance in the light from the candle he is holding. I think that I have never seen longer eyelashes on a man.

"Thank you," I stammer. "Tea would be lovely." When neither of us moves, I raise my eyebrows expectantly at the black man. He shuffles, almost apologetically.

"If Miss Everdeen wishes to have tea, it cannot be here in her cabin. Captain Snow insists all tea be served in the galley." A puzzled look crosses my face. "The kitchen, miss."

"If it must be so. Lead the way, Mr…"

"Cinna," he answers smoothly. "Cook and surgeon and preacher for the _Mockingjay_, at your service, Miss Everdeen._"_

"Cinna," I repeat, the name rolling off my tongue. He smiles and shields the candle in such a way to allow me to pass through the narrow doorframe. I follow him through the steerage to the stairs from which I descended with Mr. Thread what seems like hours ago. But instead of continuing up onto the deck of the ship, we cross a short threshold and down another narrow flight of stairs. We emerge into a large open area piled high with extra rigging and heaps of canvas that are no doubt spare sails. There are coils of ropes and buckets of tar. A few closed chests pique my curiosity, but Cinna pauses in front of a small door so I stop beside him.

"If the need arises, miss, the he-…" He catches himself. "The privy." I nod in gratitude. I had not yet considered the embarrassment of having to relieve myself and not knowing where to go. I should think I would rather have soiled myself or died of discomfort rather than ask one of the sailors.

Cinna continues several paces ahead and gestures proudly to a small room to his left, holding the candle aloft to light the space. A face looms in the shadowy glow. I gasp.

"I'm sorry, miss!" As a figure emerges into the galley's doorway, I am met by the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Even in the candlelight they are pools of cerulean, bright and clear. "I'm sorry, Cinna."

The man is young, much younger than any of the other sailors I have encountered so far, I think, though he is taller than both Cinna and myself and much broader as well. I realize that I was wrong earlier: _this man_ has the longest eyelashes I have ever seen.

"That's quite alright, Mellark," Cinna's gentle voice replies. "My galley is your galley. And 'tis our secret." The young man flashes Cinna a brilliant smile, and I can see two rows of perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth. He is hardly what I picture a rough, seafaring man to be, and I scold myself for wishing the light was better. Before I can study him further, he brushes past Cinna, careful not to touch me in the process, and he retreats into the dimness beyond the galley entrance.

"Now, how does Miss Everdeen take her tea?" He sets the candle down on a small wooden table at the center of the galley. I glance around at the space, noticing the neatness of the room and the order with which the cups, saucers and plates are stacked into open cabinets. There is a wooden stove in the far right corner, and a tea kettle whistles softly, a ribbon of steam winding from the spout. An aroma of raspberry and mint wafts past my nose. It is heavenly. Cinna smiles.

"It seems young Mr. Mellark has already prepared the kettle. I hope you like it." He pulls a cup from a nook above the stove and pours the tea into it, offering it to me carefully. I accept the cup, but shake my head when Cinna indicates the stools set on either side of the table. I cannot begrudge his kindness, but I am acutely aware it would be wrong to sit beside this man and have tea like acquaintances.

The tea is delicious. It soothes my throat, which I hadn't even realized was raw from crying. It warms my bones and makes me yearn for home.

"Miss Everdeen, if I may have a word?" I glance up from my tea, the warmth immediately chased and replaced with another wave of uneasiness.

"I do not think…" I begin.

"Please. Miss Everdeen, I know that Haymitch-"

"Mr. Abernathy?" I interject.

"Aye, Mr. Abernathy," he repeats, "I know that he spoke to you on behalf of the crew."

"It was not his place to speak to me in such a manner," I assert, irritation rising again at the slovenly sailor's declaration.

"Be that as it may, Miss Everdeen. But it needed to be spoken. And I would like to further extend to you my friendship should you find yourself-' I interrupt him again.

"I think I have had enough tea, Mr. Cinna," I say coldly, setting the cup down on the table with a clink. "And I do not think that I shall need a friend on this ship." However kind this man has been to me, I cannot forget that he is a lowly sailor, and black man furthermore in spite of whatever beauty I first saw in him. In his ignorance, he has committed a serious breach of etiquette by suggesting he and I become friends.

"One always needs friends, Miss Everdeen," he murmurs, taking my tea cup to the small sink to the left of the stove. "And you and I, miss, have far more in common than you should think at first glance." I look away, uncomfortable at his persistence. "Having something in common is a good start to a friendship."

"I should be getting back to my cabin."

"Very well. But Miss Everdeen, you were warned by more than one person about your presence on this ship. And since you have not heeded these warnings, I must offer you one final caution." He extracts something from a drawer and extends his arm in my direction. I bite back a scream at what rests in his outstretched palm.

It is a dagger.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: **_I am simply overwhelmed by the wonderful response I received to Chapter 1. Thank you so much to the readers who followed and favorited this story, and many additional thanks to those of you who took the time to leave such lovely reviews/feedback. I hope that you will continue to do so, and I promise I will do my best not disappoint you.

A short reminder that I do not own The Hunger Games, and I would be remiss if I did not offer the original novel was a great resource to assist with the descriptions of the boat and the sailing terms.

Finally, to my wonderful sounding boards, jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar...this would not be the same without your support and guidance.

* * *

It is not a dagger, precisely.

It is what is commonly known as a dirk, and it's roughly six inches in length. I have never seen a knife this close before, at least not one that isn't used for the simple task of buttering rolls at dinner. A bird is carved into the handle, and the blade glints dully in the flickering candlelight. Cinna turns and grabs another object from the drawer. It is a sheath, and he slides the knife into the protective covering. He thrusts it in my direction again.

"Take it, Miss Everdeen. One never knows when one will need defense." I shake my head vehemently.

"No, thank you." I gasp. My stomach roils with the implication of what dangers could befall me on this ship that would require a knife for protection.

"Miss Everdeen, I must insist." It is the harshest I have heard Cinna's voice since he first spoke to me, and his amber eyes lock on mine. I can see the silent plea in them. I inhale shakily and against my better judgment and all decorum, I close my fingers over the scrimshaw handle. It is my intention to fling it into the sea once we set sail, but it will placate Cinna if he thinks it in my possession.

Indeed, once the dirk is in my hand, relief is clearly evident on his ageless face.

"You will not regret it, miss," he promises. "Put it somewhere safe, somewhere only you know and where you can reach it quickly. Now, shall I lead you back to your cabin?"

In spite of the fact that I do not know the exact path back to my cabin, I have a good enough recollection of the way. (I have always prided myself on my memory). Truth be told, I have a strong urge to not to return to my cabin and instead seek out Captain Snow and demand to be allowed off the ship. I politely decline Cinna's offer and leave him at the stove of the galley.

"Miss Everdeen?" I repress a sigh and turn to face him. He is holding a small lantern. "You may find cause for this, miss."

"Thank you," I reply, genuine gratitude in my voice as I take the lamp in my free hand, intending to head to my cabin. Then I remember the dirk clutched in my other hand, and I instead make the hasty decision to dispose of it at once and then find Captain Snow. Using the lantern as my guide, I make my way to the stairs leading from the waist of the ship onto the main deck.

The sight that greets me leaves me speechless, and my jaw drops in stunned silence.

The dock is growing smaller by the moment as we drift towards the open sea. Canvas sails billow above me, puffed outward with the strength of the wind guiding us further out to sea. My heart is suddenly wrenched in my throat, and unintelligible sounds garble from my throat in my state of shock. The dirk in my hand clatters to the deck at my feet, and I manage to set the lantern down before I lean over the topgallant rail and promptly throw up into the foaming green sea.

I do not know that I truly expected to be able to convince Captain Snow to put me ashore. But I am heartsick at the thought that we have already set sail and I shall not be able to appeal to the captain to voice my concerns. I feel more trapped than ever.

Dabbing my handkerchief daintily at the corners of my mouth, I gag at the sour taste of bile still present in my throat. My stomach pitches again as the ship heaves, and I am no longer certain whether it's my quandary that is leaving me nauseous or the motion of the ship. Perhaps it is a little of both.

On trembling legs, I bend down and recover the dirk. As I draw my arm back and prepare to cast it into the churning waves, a movement just out of my left eye causes me to whirl about. I have the unsettling notion that I am being watched, but I can see no one. Sweeping my eyes from left to right across the deck once more, I discreetly tuck the small knife beneath the fabric of my bodice, nestling it awkwardly between the valley of my breasts, until the tip of the sheath hits the boning of my corset. I cannot risk throwing it overboard now.

The wood feels strange against my skin, and I glance down to ensure it is not obvious I am concealing the blade in my bosom. Drawing myself up but still clinging to the rail to steady my gait, I ease myself along the deck in the direction of what I perceive to be the captain's quarters. A row of portholes evenly spaced along horizontal planking atop the quarterdeck near the stern of the ship suggests my perception is correct. I climb the short three steps to the quarterdeck and notice the wheel is unmanned. The door to the captain's quarters is slightly ajar, but as I raise my hand to knock (pushing down the imagined admonishments of my father that a lady should not knock at the door of any gentleman; I would hope my situation would supersede good manners in this case.) I can hear voices from within.

"…the Everdeen girl, sir. The others could not be swayed, I'm sorry to say."

"No apologies necessary, Mr. Thread. I know you did your best." There is a soft shuffling, and the second voice continues. "Besides, if there must be but one, she is as good as any. With her presence, they'll dare not move. Well done. I am content with the state of things."

"Thank you, sir." The scraping of a chair startles me to action, and before I can process the implications of my eavesdropping (another phantom scolding from my father here) I stagger away on gelatin-legs.

As I stumble around the other side of the captain's cabin, I do not expect to crash directly into Mr. Crane.

"Miss Everdeen!" The surprise is palpable in his voice, and he places a hand on my right arm to balance me upright.

"Mr. Crane, I…we set sail," I finish lamely. He nods, striding past me to grip the clapper of a bell mounted at the head of the quarterdeck. He tugs the bell three times and turns his attention to me once more.

"Captain Snow's orders, miss. The conditions were right, and there was nothing preventing us from making an early departure." Before I can muster a futile protest, I am aware of more movement in the ship's waist as the crew begins to assemble on the deck. Two men drop from above, obviously having been in the shrouds, and the rest emerge from below deck. I count nine men in total, including Abernathy and Cinna. I study them as best I can without overtly staring. Several are small in stature, (most seafaring men are, I suppose) but I notice a few are broad-shouldered and well-built. The young man who was in Cinna's galley is near the middle, his blonde hair curling over those blue eyes that I can see distinctly even at the distance between us. While most of the sailors are looking down at the deck, it seems as though he is watching me. I look away quickly, a heated flush creeping across my cheeks. When my eyes are raised again, they are drawn to Abernathy, who is smirking at me.

Several of the sailors are bare-footed, but all are wearing what I presume to be standard attire: canvas britches and shabby cotton shirts, many of which are tattered and stained with tar. Some are wearing bands of red or black cloth around their heads, a sort of makeshift hat no doubt intended to offer meager protection from the unrelenting rays of the sun. I would not say any of the men are clean-shaven, but only one has a full growth of beard. The same sailor also has long dirty blonde hair. When he tosses his head, the glint of a gold earring catches the light. He looks strong and cruel.

I can honestly say I have never been in the presence of a sorrier group of men.

I observe their gazes all straying away from Mr. Crane and me, so I pivot to look behind me in the general direction of their stares. A smile plays on my lips as I see the man striding towards us. Captain Snow.

He is older than I anticipated, but the manner with which he holds himself, indeed, his mere gait, exudes dignity. His fine white hair is cropped closely to his head, which is topped by a fur-skin hat of some sort. (Beaver? Perhaps raccoon?) His beard is neatly trimmed and his cheeks just a hint darker than my own. Black boots gleam to a glossy shine and his green velvet jacket has a real rose in the lapel.

"We are short one, Mr. Crane." His voice is smooth, measured, and it resonates in my soul. He is familiar; he is more like the kind of people to whom I am accustomed.

"Yes, Captain Snow, sir. The second mate and I did our best, but this was the only crew we could assemble. Not another would sign articles."

"I might have suspected so," the captain sneers. "Very well. The rest of these curs will have to pick up the slack. Role call, Mr. Crane."

"State your names," Mr. Crane orders, his tone markedly different addressing the crew than it had been talking to Miss Trinket or me. One by one, the sailors step forward, give a name, then return to the line, eyes cast downward once more:

"Cato."

"Gloss."

"Brutus."

"Marvel."

"Mellark."

"Odair."

"Chaff."

"Haymitch."

"Cinna."

"Your crew, captain," Crane finishes with an exaggerated gesture. The captain's eyes narrow, glaring up and down the line with a prolonged sneer on his face.

"And the second mate?"

"Mr. Thread, sir. At the wheel." Crane's words surprise me. The wheel had been unmanned just moments ago when I had lingered outside the captain's door.

"Ah, Mr. Thread. I should have known." The captain begins to pace, his arms clasped behind his back, the heels of his boots clicking against the wooden deck. His face contorts into a visage of puzzlement. "Where is Mr. Boggs?"

"Sir?"

"Boggs," Captain Snow repeats dully. Crane shakes his head.

"I've never heard-"

"Very well then," the captain interjects, cutting off the first mate without another word. "It's my pleasure to welcome you all back again to my ship. I trust she is just as you remember her?" I am confused by his words until I remember Miss Trinket's chirpy reprimand. _She, Miss Everdeen. She. A ship is not an "it." It's as much a lady as you or I. _

"Our familiarity with each other will allow me to keep this brief," he continues. "I know what is expected of you. You know what is expected of you. Do your duty and what you signed on to do, and there shall be no discontentment on my part."

As Captain Snow speaks, I discreetly watch the crew and their response to him. Not a single man is looking at the captain, not directly at least. This lack of respect disheartens me, and I am once again dismayed that I must be in the company of such reprehensible humans.

By contrast, the smooth cadence of Captain Snow's voice and his confident posture soothes me and assures me that I shall have at least one soul on this ship to whom I can trust my life.

"This is the last you shall hear from me. I have no further reason to address any of you," the captain announces. "You shall take your orders from Mr. Crane as my first mate, and so from Mr. Thread as second mate. They shall serve as my eyes and ears. I will leave you with this warning: I am the master of this ship. I have the final say in all matters, and I will exact my due from any of you who dares offer me one stitch less than to what you agreed. You all know I do not make idle threats. I am a man of my word." He sweeps his eyes slowly and deliberately over each man, then abruptly turns his back to the crew, as well as Mr. Crane and me. "Mr. Crane."

"Sir?"

"Dismiss them."

"Dismissed," Mr. Crane asserts. No one moves. The wind snapping the sails is the only sound that can be heard over the rush of the sea below us.

"Dismissed!" Mr. Crane repeats, agitation coloring his tone. I cast a quick glance at Captain Snow, who remains standing stoically on the quarterdeck, his back to his crew. He much resembles the stone statues that encircle the chapel at Panem School.

Slowly, the crew begins to disperse; the men who declared themselves Cato and Gloss exchange a glance before both disappearing into the ratlines. Cinna offers me a sympathetic smile, and I quickly look away so as to affirm where my loyalties lie.

But as I avert my eyes, they make contact with the blue orbs of Mellark. His penetrating gaze locks on mine, and a pleasant shudder courses through me. The corners of his lips curve upward in the slightest movement, and his eyes do not leave mine as he inches backwards. I finally blink and reopen my eyes, discovering he too is gone.

When the last of the crew has left the deck, Captain Snow and Mr. Crane speak quietly before shaking hands, then Mr. Crane makes haste and withdraws. Captain Snow remains alone on the quarterdeck several paces away from where I stand. I inhale sharply, the salty sea air stinging my nostrils. I smooth my skirts, adjust my gloves and finger-comb my hair as best I can, lamenting how heavy and damp it feels in the oppressive air. Fighting a wave of nausea that arises as I take a few tentative steps, I edge toward the captain. He turns in my direction, and the genuine smile with which he greets me brings such joy to my heart that I feel like bursting into tears.

"You must be the esteemed Miss Everdeen." He bows, and I try to return the courteous gesture with a meek curtsy of my own. My heart swells further when he reaches for my gloved hand and raises it to his lips.

"I am, sir. Miss Katniss Everdeen. Thank you for allowing me on your ship."

"Captain Coriolanus Snow, miss. It is my pleasure to have such a refined, lovely young woman on this ship. Your father's ship," he adds. The emphasis that he places on the mention of my father is not lost on me.

"My father," I echo, placing a hand on the closest rail before another ripple of queasiness hits me. "My father would be much distressed at this situation, sir. I am most uncomfortable, sir, in the company of these men."

"Miss Everdeen, you have my most sincere sympathies. It is most unfortunate about those families who were scheduled to join you. But I can assure you that I will personally see to your security on this ship. You shall be perfectly safe, and no harm will befall you. Did you not hear my words to the crew? I am a man of my word."

"It is quite a long journey, sir, I…"

"Consider this, Miss Everdeen. You shall actually play a large role in keeping these ruffians honest. Do you think any of these men, however scurrilous they appear, would dare risk harming a lady of your stature and station? Think of the outcry, the scandal should anything befall you on this voyage."

I had not considered what the captain was implying, and I have to admit it is perfect logic. But it does little to assuage the pit of apprehension that has sat like lead in my stomach since I first boarded _The Mockingjay. _

"That makes me feel a trifle better, sir," I lie, forcing a smile upon my lips as I swallow down the renewed threat of rising bile in my throat.

"Furthermore, Miss Everdeen, think of the good that you can offer to _them_."

"How so, sir?"

"This uncivilized lot, Miss Everdeen, is not used to the sophistication and manners of a woman." I cannot contain the blush that stains my cheeks at his suggestion that I am a _woman_. I am two years shy of my eighteenth birthday, and I know that I am slight for my age.

"Captain Snow, sir, a word?" Mr. Thread materializes from the behind the captain's cabin, and I wonder who has taken the wheel.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Everdeen." Captain Snow lifts his hat. My spirits sink a little; first at his capricious dismissal of me, and then at the interruption, leaving me wondering what the captain thought that I could offer to these rough men.

Both Captain Snow and Mr. Thread stare at me expectantly, and I realize they are waiting for me to move. But my legs are fixed in place, wobbling in my weakened state.

"Miss Everdeen?" Captain Snow raises an eyebrow at me, knitting his fingers and folding them at his waist.

"I am having difficulty walking, sir," I whisper.

"Mr. Thread will escort you to your cabin. I imagine you have a touch of seasickness, Miss Everdeen. Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure." I cringe; nightfall is still hours away, and the board that calls itself a bed does not exactly inspire thoughts of restful slumber and sweet dreams. "Once you are feeling up to it, we shall have tea in my quarters. Good day, Miss Everdeen." He retreats for his cabin.

Mr. Thread offers his arm, and I am loath to take it. His frayed jacket is dirty. I swear I can see the grime on his skin, and he reeks of cigar smoke. Stubbornly, I set one foot in front of the other, and my knees buckle. A startled cry leaps from my throat, and Mr. Thread grips my arm to steady me. I feel too weak to protest, so I allow him to lead me back to my cabin, though I don't much remember it. He mutters a low, "Miss," before closing the door behind him.

Bracing my palm against the rear wall, I manage to unlace my boots and (though unlacing them is a greater challenge with unsteady fingers) shimmy out of my skirts and petticoat, exhaling deeply as my still-quaking fingers unravel my corset.

A clattering sound draws my attention to the floor where my blurry vision can just discern the outline of a knife at my stocking feet. Perplexed at first, my hazy mind recalls Mr. Cinna forcing it upon me. I slowly lower my body to the ground to pick up the dirk, but the urge to lie down overwhelms me, and I leave the dirk where it lies.

When I am finally stripped down to my underclothes, it takes more effort that I'd like to admit to crawl onto the bed.

The last thing I recall before my eyes slip shut is that death must be more peaceful than this.

Over the next several days, I drift in and out of consciousness. I am beset by ghastly nightmares, visions of Hell or what I imagine Hell to be. A lantern crashes to the deck and sets my body aflame, transforming my earthly form into a pile of smoldering ashes. A rogue wave sweeps the deck, washing me out to sea until I sputter for air and drown beneath the waves. The sailors' faces melt away, revealing mottled skin and skeleton, and I am eaten alive, the crunch of my bones rattling in my ears. Wordless screams catch in my throat, which is sore from vomiting, and I alternate between vicious chills and feverish sweats.

I do recall gentle touches: a dabbing at my forehead with a cool cloth, the brushing of sweat-soaked strands of hair out of my eyes, a spooning of a thick porridge into my mouth. Flashes of gold dot my vision, and in a strange paradox of what brought on my delirium, the metronome motion of the ship soothes me, rocking me in a bizarre lullaby.

When I am finally able to open my eyes more than a crack and not have them close on their own accord, I attempt to drag myself from the bed. Putting one leg on the floor, I bite my lip as I lower my other leg and utter a gasp of delight when I discover I am able to support my weight and stand independently.

I realize that I am in a state of undress, and my good mood dampens a little when I remember that my trunk, along with my clean clothes and fresh undergarments, is in top cargo, which might as well be Valhalla for my purposes. I knew not where it was, nor the route to get there had I did know its proximity. Disheartened, I redress in the soiled, limp garments that I had removed at the start of my infirmity.

I will have to call on Captain Snow to ask a crew member to show me where this mythical top cargo is so that I may retrieve new clothes. One of my books would also be a welcome sight.

My hair presents me with another momentary fit of disappointment. I have always been exceedingly proud of my long tresses; at Panem, I took distinct pleasure in watching my roommate, Margaret Undersee, gaze longingly at my thick, chocolate locks as I brushed the required 100 strokes each night before bed. (Margaret's hair was blonde, fine and despite her best efforts with pin curls, always hung straight as a stick by midmorning prayers.)

I thread my fingers into my scalp, wincing at the effort it takes to tug through the knotted waves. My hairbrush is in my trunk, and I berate myself silently for not slipping it into my valise. I decide it is futile to wear the bonnet, so I pull back my hair as best I can without the aid of the brush, only to discover I have nothing with which to secure it.

Heaving a sigh of frustration, I give up and reach for my boots. It is then that I spy the dirk, still lying where it fell several days ago.

I am at a loss as to what I should do with the blade. I cannot imagine, in spite of his blatant breech of station by presuming to force it upon me, that Cinna did not have a good reason to insist I take it. I am acutely uncomfortable having the knife in my possession, but I am having second thoughts about disposing of it. Until I can come to a resolution as to what my best course of action will be, I grab the dirk and quickly jam it into the pockets of my gown. "Stay there," I command, giggling at my own foolishness talking to an inanimate object.

Once my boots are laced and my now-more-gray-than-white gloves are snugly on my hands, I peer out of my cabin, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim corridor. From the light slanting down at the foot of the stairs, I deduce that it must be late morning or early afternoon. As I am about to ascend the stairs, a creak stops me in my tracks.

"Miss Everdeen, good day!" Cinna greets me, stepping from the shadows. His cinnamon skin seems to glow in the dappled sunlight, and he smiles at me kindly. Impulsively, I turn and fish the dirk out from its hiding place in my skirts. Encountering Cinna first is a definite sign that I should return this unholy object to him. I spin back around to face him, shoving the offending blade at him.

"I cannot keep this," I hiss in a hoarse whisper. "It is wrong of me to have it, and it was wrong of you to give it to me." Cinna's eyes narrow, but not in a menacing way. There is concern tugging at the corners, and his mouth twists slightly.

He changes the subject abruptly. "Miss Everdeen, are you hungry?" As if on cue, my stomach rumbles audibly, and I blush at the sound. Cinna laughs a quiet chuckle and nods. "I should say that's a yes, miss. Come, join me for tea and a biscuit."

I am wary of sitting with him once more in the galley; I do not like the implication that accepting such an invitation will only encourage his attempts at friendship. But my hunger trumps my apprehension, and I wordlessly follow Cinna into the galley.

He gestures at the stool, and I reluctantly perch atop the wooden chair, hooking my boot heels over the bottom rung and steadying myself by resting my clasped hands on the small table. I place the dirk in the center of the table, hoping it will spontaneously combust and rid me of its presence. He busies himself pouring tea into a cup and retrieving a tin from a niche above the stove.

"Biscuit?" He places the tea in front of me and offers the now-open tin in my direction. I glance at the shapeless lumps, my nose crinkling in suspicion. "Hardtack," he explains. My mouth goes dry. I had been anticipating a buttery flavorful cookie when Cinna had said the word "biscuit." I know what hardtack is from the few unapproved history texts with which I became familiar while at Panem. (As with Frankenstein, I don't promote how I got my hands on these scandalous books.) A flattened "bread" made from flour and water (and salt, I have read, though Cinna's hardtack, regrettably had none.), it can last days, months, or if baked and kept dry, years, which earns it its favor with sailors and soldiers. I reach in and select a small bleached chunk of the bread, if it can be called that, and gingerly take a bite, my jaw working furiously to chew it. Cinna studies me as I do so.

"I know it's not the refined cooking that Miss Everdeen is probably used to, but it's the best we sailors have here at sea." He chooses a piece for himself, and he immediately dunks it into his tea. I nearly choke on my biscuit at his lack of manners. But he winks at me. "Softens the lot quite a bit. Try it," he urges gently.

I shake my head and take another nibble at the hardened lump. Miss Trinket's blonde head would spin at the sight of the black man dipping his bread into his cup. I sip my tea in silence, feeling Cinna's pensive gaze on me.

"You are feeling better now, Miss Everdeen?"

"Yes, much, thank you," I reply.

"You were quite ill, miss," he continues. "Such a fever I have not seen in years."

"Did you…?" I begin to stammer, aware that the gentle touches and soft whispers while I tossed and turned in my delirium were not part of my hallucinations. "Did you care for me while I was infirm?" Cinna's tender smile is all the affirmation I need, but he speaks nonetheless.

"I told you, Miss Everdeen, that I could be a good friend. Friends take care of one another in times of need." I close my eyes briefly, uneasy at his persistent proposition of friendship.

"Thank you for your kindness." I pause. "How long was I ill?"

"Five days," he responds, standing to refill his tea cup. He brings the kettle to the table and stands poised to top off my own cup, but I shake my head. "You gave me a dreadful scare, young miss."

"If we speak of scares, Cinna, I really must inquire why you are so emphatic that I keep this." I push the dirk across the table in Cinna's direction. His hand closes over my own gloved one, and he pushes back.

"One can never be too safe, Miss Everdeen. You should have protection in case the need arises."

"What danger can await me on a ship!" I cry. "Lest the fear of being swept overboard or capsizing, neither of which would present to me the opportunity to protect myself with this." I motion at the knife.

"Miss Everdeen, you are delightfully naïve," he answers. He stands once more and goes to the doorway of the galley. After ducking his head outside, he returns, seemingly satisfied that we are not at risk for eavesdroppers. "There is a greater risk of danger on this ship than you could possibly be aware."

There is a perceptible change in Cinna's tone that sends a trickle of alarm through me. I can hear repeated warnings: _You should not be on this ship_. I remember guarded whispers outside the captain's cabin before the crew assembled. And I recall how, not one, but _two_ men ran from the _Mockingjay_ like frightened hares evading a fox. I gulp and wring my hands anxiously.

"What kind of danger?" I whisper.

"Do you like stories, Miss Everdeen?"

"I do not," I fib, my cheeks coloring slightly at my penchant for literature that would never have been found in Miss Coin's library at Panem.

"Good. This is not a story. What I am about to tell you is as true as anything you would read in the Bible. One year ago, on this exact ship, there was an incident between Captain Snow and a member of his crew."

"Captain Snow is a gentleman!" I interject, rising to my feet indignantly.

"Sit down, Miss Everdeen," Cinna intones mildly. I cross my arms and remain standing. Cinna smiles wryly and continues speaking.

"Captain Snow may be a gentleman. But he is the farthest thing from a gentle man that I have ever met."

"Mr. Cinna!" I exclaim. "I will not listen to you slander the captain of this ship. My father…"

"Miss Everdeen, you have known Captain Snow for all of six days. Five of those days you were practically unconscious. I have sailed with Captain Snow for three years. You owe me the courtesy of at least hearing me out." I narrow my eyes to silver slits but take my seat stubbornly.

"On a ship, Miss Everdeen, you will certainly find captains who drive their crew harder than others. Some captains rule their ships with an iron fist, with very little room or tolerance for error. The greatest mistakes a sailor can make would be to shirk his duties or to blatantly defy orders. Most sailors know this, and thus, there is a tenuous agreement between captain and crew to each keep to his place. Good first and second mates maintain balance when a captain is particularly harsh."

"I do not see what this has to do with you presenting me with a knife, Mr. Cinna," I interject impatiently. "I think it might be nice to retrieve some things from my trunk. Would you be so kind to show me to top cargo?" He shook his head and tented his fingers, drumming the tips against each other.

"For that you will have to ask Mr. Crane, miss. And if Miss Everdeen would be patient, I will address your need for protection." He waits expectantly, and I sigh loudly, a sign of my irritation but a cue for him, nonetheless, to continue.

"So as I was saying, just over a year ago, on this very ship, a poor fellow, a good sailor, mind you, raised the ire of Captain Snow. Our captain is a fastidious man, Miss Everdeen. He can see faults in the smallest detail, and he is unrelenting about tasks being completed to his satisfaction."

"Order, Mr. Cinna, is the basis of all civilization," I interrupt again, quoting words that I recalled reading in one of my father's many letters in recent years. (My father had been a child in the years between the American Revolution and the War of 1812, and I know him to be a strong proponent of defending democracy and civil liberties.)

"I am not speaking of order, Miss Everdeen," Cinna retorts, and I catch a hint of mild annoyance in his voice. "I am speaking of irrational expectations. This sailor, fine man by the name of Boggs…" The hair on the back of my neck prickles and raises a trail of goosebumps from my nape down to my tailbone.

"Was that not the name that Captain Snow called for when the crew announced themselves at the commencement of our voyage?" A wry smile graces Cinna's lips.

"The very same," he affirms. "You are a good listener. Mr. Boggs was a hard worker. An excellent sailor. An honest man. But one particular day when his watch was on duty, Mr. Boggs was tying knots in the rigging. Upon inspection, Captain Snow was dissatisfied with the way Boggs tied the knots." Cinna leans forward, closing the space between us. I lean back from the table instinctively. "Miss Everdeen, as fine and dignified a young lady as you are, I trust there were times at your school when you did not complete an assignment to the satisfaction of your teachers or the headmistress, am I correct?"

I nod reluctantly, thinking of the reprimands I repeatedly received over my poor penmanship.

"And what happened as a result?" he prompts me.

"I was often asked to redo the assignment," I explain quietly. My stomach has begun churning for reasons that I cannot fully explain.

"A perfectly logical solution, one from which a girl can learn, yes?" I nod again. Cinna chuckles softly, a bitter edge to the laugh.

"A ship is not a school. Not according to Captain Snow. Mr. Boggs was not given the option of redoing the knots. At least not immediately. Captain Snow chose, instead, to punish him."

"I have seen unruly students punished before," I pipe up. I recall a girl three years my elder, Johanna Mason, who once replaced the wine in the school parish's tabernacle with Irish whiskey. She received several lashes with a birch rod at the start of the next sermon, in view of all us girls to serve as "warning for such wicked behavior and blatant disregard for the sacrament of the Eucharist." (It did not really deter her proclivity for immoral behavior.)

"A sailor is not an unruly student, Miss Everdeen."

"Maybe this Mr. Boggs should have tied the knots correctly in the first place," I shoot back.

"Do you believe in justice, Miss Everdeen?" The question catches me by surprise. I draw myself up straighter on the stool.

"I am an American, Mr. Cinna. Our country was founded on the premise of 'justice for all'."

"Justice for all?" he repeats sardonically. My fists clench involuntarily at his presumptuous tone.

"Yes," I sniff. "That's for what Washington and Jefferson and the other founders of my great country fought so passionately." I place exaggerated emphasis on the word 'my' since I know little of Cinna's background or his heritage.

"Is it justice then, Miss Everdeen, that Captain Snow took it upon himself to discipline Mr. Boggs by taking his arm?" A churn of nausea swirls in my abdomen.

"He what?" I whisper weakly. Cinna's tawny eyes lock onto mine with recognition.

"Captain Snow said Mr. Bogg's laboring arm-his left arm, mind you-was his by rights. And in completing his knot-tying in such a reprehensible manner, Mr. Boggs forfeited that arm to the captain." I press a hand to my mouth, swallowing back the sour taste rising in my throat.

"Mr. Cinna, you cannot frighten me with such abhorrent tales!" I exclaim, scrambling to my feet. "If it means that much to you that I keep the dirk I shall keep it in my possession until we are safely ashore in Philadelphia!" I snatch the blade from the table, but my fingers are shaking badly and the sheath slips from my grasp.

Cinna rises and retrieves the dirk, placing it gently in my quaking palm and carefully closing my fingers over it.

"I don't intend to frighten you, Miss Everdeen. But the truth is not always pretty."

"It can't be the truth," I murmur.

"Miss Everdeen, I was the one called upon to assist Captain Snow in the removal of the limb. Mr. Boggs, God bless his soul wherever he may be, has but one arm now." Cinna sighs and closes his eyes briefly. "When we docked in Providence, each and every member of the crew did their brotherly duty on behalf of poor Mr. Boggs and petitioned the admiralty courts to have Captain Snow brought up on charges. But it was in vain. Captain Snow simply had to state that Boggs had refused an order. That was that. Not a word of censure. Not even a slap on the wrist. Captain Snow walked away scot-free."

"I do not wish to hear any more," I protest.

"I am nearly done, Miss Everdeen. Captain Coriolanus Snow prides himself on his reputation. Men like your father employ him as captain of their ships because they see him, as you do, like themselves: a gentleman who understands business, who understands a ship with a fast crossing means greater profit. And profit, my dear girl, is what turns this world of ours. But to sail a ship, one needs a crew."

I frown, sensing a shift in his narrative.

"And that is where Captain Snow encountered his first wrinkle from the Boggs incident," he continues. "You see, not a single other jack would sign articles with him. Or perhaps I should say, not a single jack could sign on. They were all warned away, you see."

I think immediately, once more, of the warnings given to me, of the men who fled at the sight of the _Mockingjay_, at the mention of Captain Snow's name.

"Then why are these men aboard? If no one could sign on," I press. Cinna raises his eyebrows and blinks hard.

"I didn't say no one, Miss Everdeen. I said _no other_ men." Dread rushes through my body as I realize the implication of his words.

"This is his former crew," I stammer, panic rising in me like flood waters. "The men who witnessed the ordeal with Mr. Boggs."

"Aye, Miss Everdeen. Mr. Crane is new; the captain insisted on a new first mate for this voyage, and of course, Mr. Boggs is unable to perform the work of a sailor any longer. But every other Jack Tar on board at this moment is here for one reason, and that reason is why I was so insistent upon you taking that dirk." I turn the blade over in my hand, tracing the pattern on the sheath.

"What is the reason, Mr. Cinna?" I inquire quietly, though I do not truly wish to hear the answer spoken aloud. I am not so foolish that I cannot deduce why these men, in spite of Captain Snow's hypothetical cruelty, (if Cinna is speaking the absolute truth) would agree to sign articles with this ship a second time. I know the names Bligh and _Bounty_.

"Revenge."

"Revenge," I repeat dumbly.

"Aye. So you see, Miss Everdeen, it is in your best interest that you have protection in case things…" he trails off. "Well, please say you will keep the dirk."

"I will," I agree numbly.

"The crew, miss, they know your father's name. They know he employs Captain Snow. And they will expect you will echo your father's sentiments in showing loyalty to the captain."

"I cannot view him as anything other than a gentleman, Mr. Cinna. He commands my esteem."

"I know, miss. And in spite of the fact I have never met your father, I respect him and owe him the effort of protecting you. So please, take the dirk and hide it away somewhere safe, somewhere you can access it quickly if the need arises."

"I can place it under my pallet," I whisper. The dirk in my hand might as well be an albatross around my neck. But I am resolved anew to stow it away in my cabin in the remote chance that even a modicum of what Cinna has just alleged is true.

"Thank you, Miss Everdeen." Cinna surprises me by closing my hands between his own, causing me to grip the blade tightly. I am honestly too stunned from what I have heard to be rightly offended by his bold act.

A noise at the doorway startles us, and Cinna immediately releases my hands. I glance up and my eyes widen at the man who stands at the threshold.

It is Mellark.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note:**_ Many sincere thanks to those of you who read Chapter 2 and took the time to review. As a new author, it means the world to me to hear your feedback, and not being on tumblr, I really value the chance to interact with readers and I respond to every review. I cannot promise updates this close together, but for what it's worth this story is nearly complete.

As always, much love and thanks to my therapists, jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar. You ladies are the only reason I am still sane. Thank you also to RainyDaysAnyways and HGRomance for their inspiring PMs. You both made me smile.

I do not own The Hunger Games and all other works of literature referred to in this story belong to their original authors.

* * *

Mellark stands before us, his tousled blonde curls falling over his forehead, blue eyes glinting in the slanting sunlight. He ducks his head and offers a sheepish smile, raking a hand through his hair. I am drawn to the line of his jaw as he clenches it. He is, at the moment, clean-shaven, and his countenance resembles that of chiseled marble. I look away hastily before my gaze descends into full-blown staring.

"Sorry, Cinna. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No apologies needed, Mellark. Miss Everdeen and I were just finishing up."

"It is good to see you up and about, Miss Everdeen," Mellark smiles. "You'll find your sea legs in no time now." I knit my eyebrows, and he laughs softly, a warm and inviting sound. "It's an expression, miss. Means you'll figure out how to move about on a moving ship more steadily the longer we are at sea."

"Did you want something, Mellark?" Cinna probes, beginning to press coffee beans through a tarnished silver percolator.

"I just wanted to ask you something, Cinna, but it can wait," he replies. "My watch will be starting soon." He turns to leave, but I stand, surprising myself.

"Mr. Mellark!" I call. "Would you be so kind as to show me to top cargo? My trunk is stored there, and I wish to withdraw some clean clothing and my reading. Mr. Cinna said I should ask Mr. Crane, but since you are already here I thought maybe…" I trail off, suddenly shy. I should not be asking favors of the sailors. They are beneath me, and to ask what I have asked of Mellark is certainly a breech of etiquette. But Mellark's eyes shine as they crinkle with a smile.

"Mr. Crane would no doubt assign the task of escorting you to top cargo to one of us who is off-duty anyway. I'd be happy to show you the way, Miss Everdeen." It is then that his gaze drifts to my hands, and a flicker of surprise reaches his eyes before his expression goes neutral once more. I blush in spite of myself and realize I am still holding the dirk. Mellark does not say a word; instead, he brushes past me, grazing my shoulder ever so slightly in the cramped space and rummages in a drawer next to where Cinna is preparing the coffee. He produces a candle and some matches then walks back to where I am waiting. He gestures to the corridor beyond the galley, indicating I should follow him.

"Thank you for the tea, Mr. Cinna." I curtsy quickly, slipping the dirk into the pocket of my dress.

"The pleasure was mine, Miss Everdeen. You'll remember our discussion, I hope." His eyes plead with mine, and I look away quickly, embarrassed that he has referenced our talk so capriciously. I should not be conversing with him so freely.

I follow Mellark out of the galley without another word to Cinna. He leads me past the hatchway in the center of the ship's waist, where I anticipated top cargo might be.

"Hatchway to cargo must be secured during the voyage," he explains, as if reading my mind. "We will have to go another way." I nod and continue to follow behind him, watching his broad shoulders shifting underneath the thin cotton of the white shirt he wears. My chest constricts inexplicably when he stops and as a result of my lack of focus, I crash into him. He twists around to look at me as I scramble away, my back hitting the wall beside my cabin door.

I realize we are in steerage, just outside my cabin door, I realize. The mates' mess table is opposite us. Mellark coughs quietly.

"You may wish to put that knife in your cabin, miss. The fewer people who see you with it, the better."

"I am not certain I shall keep it," I reply, mildly aggravated that he has presumed to give me an order. Yes, he said it politely, but it is an order nonetheless.

"You should keep it," he says curtly. I sigh and plunge my hand into my pocket, gripping the dirk and slipping inside my cabin. Mellark is kind enough to hold the door, allowing the meager light from steerage to enter my closet of a room.

I return the blade to its place beneath the thin mattress and impulsively, I pull off my gloves and set them atop the bed. They are soiled enough, and the humidity of the ship is causing my palms to sweat inside them. And it is not like the sailors, I note sardonically, will belie their absence.

Presently, I rejoin Mellark. He allows my cabin door to bang shut, and carefully sets the candle onto the mess table and crawls under it, tugging at a hatch built flush into the floor. Once he has the hatch open, he emerges from under the table and pauses to light the candle. Shadowy fingers of fire clutch at the walls as he carefully shields the dancing flame. Then he is under the table again, dropping his body down into the hatch.

"Miss Everdeen, I'm sorry but you'll have to crawl as well," he calls up to me. I inhale deeply; for the first time since I boarded the ship, I am glad for my disheveled clothing, as they can't possibly get any filthier than they already are. Then I lower myself to my hands and knees and back deliberately into the hole, my boots catching the rungs of the ladder to descend about ten feet by my estimation. I count twelve rungs. I feel a strong hand close around my arm, and the guiding touch is so welcome I temporarily forget that Mellark has once more overstepped his bounds.

"Pardon me, miss, but I didn't want you accidentally continuing on into the hold," he explains in that soft voice. His tone is soothing, melodious almost. I never would have imagined a sailor to have such a smooth tenor to him. When I look below me at the ladder, illuminated in the candlelight, I notice it goes on into a pit of blackness.

"What is down there?" I ask hesitantly.

"Oh, more cargo. The bilge, that's the foul smell you're probably noticing." I wrinkle my nose as I instinctively take a breath and indeed, a malodorous stench invades my nostrils. "Plenty of rats and roaches too. And the brig," he finishes.

"The brig?"

"The ship's jail, miss," he offers.

I am aghast. "For what does a ship need a jail?"

"Every ship has one," he shrugs. "Captain Snow would not sail without, miss. Keeps a crew honest, or so he enjoys reminding us." A great jolt goes through me as I recall the story of poor Mr. Boggs and the surly appearance of some of the sailors. What behavior could be so awful to warrant imprisonment at the cost of a working hand?

I cannot be farther from my previous safe existence at Panem or the home that awaits me in Philadelphia, I lament silently once more.

His other hand still gripping my left arm, Mellark extends his hand to me. I reluctantly accept it, struck instantly at how rough and calloused his skin feels against mine. In spite of this, his touch sends an electrical pulse up my right arm, my blood sizzling in response. It is suddenly much too hot in the darkened space, and I am grateful that Mellark cannot see the blush coloring my cheeks or see the beads of sweat gathering above my lip.

He holds my hand tightly as he urges me to take the small leap to the top cargo deck. As soon as my boots hit the ground, he releases me immediately and steps away from me, holding the candle out to better light the room.

I can now see that we are standing in an enormous cavern, for lack of a better word. The wooden ribbing criss-crossing the ceiling gives it an ominous feel, especially since the meager glow from Mellark's candle only reaches so far. The blackness beyond seems to swallow the patches of light greedily so that, despite the mammoth space, I suddenly feel very claustrophobic. My breath hitches in my throat, and it must do so audibly because he turns to me.

"Is something wrong, miss?" he asks gently. I shake my head. I will not have any of these rough sea-faring men think me some silly little girl afraid of her own shadow. Mellark regards me carefully, sympathy heavy in those clear blue eyes, which seem to be impossibly brighter in the dimness. There is something different about this man, and it unnerves me, I am remiss to admit.

"What is that?" I point to a large cylindrical device that resembles some sort of mechanical spider, with pipes and handles and levers poking out from every angle.

"Oh, that's the pump, miss. In case she takes on water. You pray you do not need it, and then when you need it, you pray like he…" He stops himself. "You pray it works properly if you do need it."

I glance around top cargo. Many of the crates and barrels that I had seen on the docks back in Liverpool are now piled atop each other, restrained by ropes and braced against each other to prevent movement during the trip. There are rows and rows of the cargo, creating a labyrinth of sorts. Mellark gestures to his left with the candle.

"There is your trunk, Miss Everdeen." I see my trunk, propped up against a large barrel at the start of the cargo maze.

"Would you please open it for me?"

He obliges, handing me the candle to use both hands to undo the clasp, and he carefully arranges the trunk so that it opens towards me and I can see its contents. The sight of my neatly-wrapped clothing, nestled among layers of tissue paper, momentarily overwhelms me. It is this familiar glimpse at the life that I know so well being thrust upon me in my current setting that springs tears to my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away before Mellark can see me weeping like a baby. _Weak_, I scold myself. _Be strong._ The clothing should give me strength, should remind me where I will ultimately land and where this horrid predicament will be but a distant memory.

I begin to select several garments, taking an extra pair of gloves for good measure, and sighing with pleasure at the discovery of my hairbrush and several satin ribbons. I discretely slide my chemise drawers and a clean camisole between the folds of the dress I have chosen, hoping Mellark did not catch sight of the unmentionables. I sneak a quick glance at him, but his back is to me as waits patiently. I resume my perusal of my belongings.

I cannot be sure why I was concerned with him seeing my undergarments, but an unusual sensation sweeps through my belly but is gone as quickly as it arrived.

"Excuse me, Miss Everdeen?" I look up from where I am hunched over my trunk, finding Mellark standing very close to me.

"Yes?"

"It will be my watch soon. I beg your pardon, miss, but will you be much longer?" He poses the question in the same mild manner, probably meaning no harm, but I am offended by the implication that I am taking too long and I allow my irritation to be clearly heard in my reply.

"I have many nice things, Mr. Mellark, and it is has been several days since I have changed clothes."

"Very well, miss." His voice remains calm and measured, and he turns his back on me again. I feel a twinge of guilt at being so petulant; he has been nothing but kind to me. I hurriedly pick through the layers of clothing and grab several more things before rising to my feet.

"I am ready, Mr. Mellark," I announce. He faces me and smiles warmly. It astonishes me that he can manage such a cordial expression given how rude I just was. Another twinge of guilt plucks at me.

"You know, miss, now that you know the way there is no reason why you can't venture back down here on your own should you want something," he offers. "Just be sure you bring a candle and watch your step."

"That is true," I agree, though the thought of returning to this dark and vast place alone is vaguely disconcerting. He sets the candle down on a lone crate and takes the bundle of clothing from my arms.

"Thank you," I murmur, surprised by his actions.

"A lady should not carry such a burden up the ladder, miss. You'll want both hands free while ascending. It's second nature to me." He balances the bulk over his left arm and retrieves the candle with his free hand.

"Thank you," I echo again.

"Miss Everdeen," he begins-and I think I have never enjoyed the sound of my name as much as I have hearing him say it-"If I may have a word with you before we go up?"

A shiver goes through me at his words. There he goes again, underestimating my station and overestimating his. I am remiss to directly deny him though as he knows Cinna got the benefit of my ear in the galley earlier.

"I thought you were in a hurry," I reply, knowing I sound petty. His eyes sparkle and he laughs that quiet laugh.

"Touche, Miss Everdeen. I'll be brief." He leans closer to me, and at this distance, I can see the flicker of the candle's flame reflected in his irises, and his eyes mesmerize me. I have often heard that expression 'the eyes are the window to the soul' but never much understood its meaning until now. I shudder at the intimacy of our proximity, and I'm horrified by the strong urge that I have to reach out and trace the line of his jaw. How can a human being…a common sailor…be this beautiful? His lips are moving, but no sound reaches my ears.

"Miss Everdeen? Did you hear me?"

"What? No?" I stammer, shaking myself from the reverie.

"I said, miss, that you would be wise to take Cinna's advice and keep that knife close by. You never know when you might need it."

"How did you know-" I begin, but trail off. "You said before, by my cabin, the fewer people who see me with it, the better. What did you mean by that?"

"The dirk, Miss Everdeen. It can be our secret. Yours, mine and Cinna's."

"Miss Trinket always says secrets lead to betrayal," I retort. A gleam settles in his eyes.

"Miss Trinket, whoever she may be, is not here, is she?" He smirks slightly. "And I am very good at keeping secrets." Before I can reply, he motions to the ladder. "After you, miss." I gather my skirts and grip the ladder rungs tightly, swinging myself awkwardly onto it. I climb as quickly as my bulky clothing will allow, and Mellark is a perfect gentleman, waiting on the top cargo deck until I have fully extracted myself from the hole. I peer down into the murkiness and see him blow out the candle, placing it between his teeth as he nimbly jumps onto the ladder, carrying my clothing while making quick work of the ladder with just the aid of one hand.

He follows me into my cabin, though he must stoop slightly to do so, lays the clothing cautiously on the bed and retreats from the space without a word.

"Mr. Mellark, thank you!" I call.

"My pleasure, Miss Everdeen." He gives a little bow and then disappears. I notice he has left the candle on the bulwark wall chest, along with the matches. I am exceedingly grateful for this small gesture of kindness when I move to close the door for privacy while changing my clothes. My cabin has no portholes, and thus, I have no natural light by which to see if the door is shut.

Several minutes later I am savoring the sensation of clean garments against my skin as I settle on the edge of my bed and begin to brush my hair. It is a painful process, and the bristles catch on the tangles knotting my mane more times than I can count. My scalp starts to ache and my fingers cramp with the effort.

A knock on my cabin door catches me by surprise, and the brush slips from my grasp and lands on the floor with a resounding _thwack_.

"Yes?" I answer warily.

"Miss Everdeen, it is Mr. Thread, the second mate. Requesting your permission to open the door, miss."

"Permission granted." The door swings open, and Mr. Thread stands in the threshold. He is not a tall man, but he is broad-shouldered and sturdy, and he fills the space easily.

"Miss Everdeen, the captain is requesting the honor of your company for tea, if you would join him in his quarters." I jump from my bed.

"I would be honored, yes!" I exclaim, suppressing a giggle of delight and pushing aside the notion that having had tea with Cinna just about an hour ago, I do not truly crave more. But the invitation to Captain Snow's quarters is more than an occasion to drink tea. I would be a fool to turn it down.

Mr. Thread waits in the doorway, visibly annoyed while I carefully secure two front sections of my hair back from my face with a ribbon, the rest of my tresses tumbling down my back as full as I can manage to make them. I slip on fresh gloves, the white satin gleaming and cool against my damp palms.

"Lead the way, please," I command, finally satisfied with what I imagine my appearance to be. Without the aid of a mirror, I cannot be certain, but I feel pretty again. Mr. Thread snorts and gesticulates broadly. I am sure he means to be sarcastic, but his mocking demeanor cannot dampen my spirits.

My mind races with all that has transpired since we set course for America, and I am waging an internal debate with myself over how much I should confide in Captain Snow when Mr. Thread stops and knocks abruptly upon the captain's door. Mr. Crane, from his position beside a sailor (Gloss, was it?) at the wheel, smiles widely and gives a little wave. I return his smile as we hear a clear, "Enter!" and Mr. Thread pushes the cabin door open wide.

I cannot prevent my jaw from dropping or contain the sigh that escapes my lips as I step into Captain Snow's quarters and observe the surroundings.

It is like the Garden of Eden given the world outside its walls. The cabin stretches the entire width of the ship, and there is ample room to stand without one's head scraping the ceiling. The walls are richly paneled in a deep wood, possibly mahogany, and gilded frames grace the walls at even intervals, bordering prints of bucolic pastures, serene meadows and even one of the seashore. A row of windows runs the length of the stern, which comprises the back wall, and the opposite wall is dotted with portholes. A red-velvet upholstered couch dominates the starboard wall, flanked by a beautifully carved table that displays a number of nautical instruments and devices and an austere iron safe, much like that I vaguely remember in my own father's study when I was a child.

To complete this portrait of complete elegance is Captain Snow, sitting in a high-backed, winged armchair, a full silver tea service prepared on the table beside him. Behind the tea service is a tall crystal vase that holds at least two dozen long-stemmed red roses. Roses! The armchair's twin is to the other side of the table, its plush upholstery beckoning to me.

"Miss Everdeen, how kind of you to accept my invitation. Please, do, have a seat!" His voice is like molasses, thick and rich, yet sweet. "Mr. Thread, you may leave us."

The gnarled man narrows his eyes at me but leaves without saying a word.

"Biscuit?" The captain extends a gold-plaited tin in my direction.

"Yes, thank you, sir." I daintily choose a round one, and I moan in delight when the light, buttery cookie dissolves on my tongue. Captain Snow laughs heartily.

"Such a simple pleasure, no?" He sets the tin down next to the tea service. "Please, you are welcome to as many of them as you wish, Miss Everdeen. I can imagine you are quite famished after your illness. I am pleased to see the color back in your pretty cheeks." I swallow my cookie, and with it, a blush.

"Thank you, sir. I am feeling much better indeed."

"You shall get used to being at sea, Miss Everdeen. I know this is hardly the environment to which you are accustomed."

"If I may be truthful, sir," I begin, "this is the most at home I have felt since we have been at sea. Your cabin is exquisite. One might even forget he or she is at sea."

"Yes, I apologize that your quarters are hardly the comfort with which I am sure you are acquainted. I will do my best to insure that you have several opportunities to take tea with me so that you may enjoy an occasional respite from your accommodations." I smile politely, masking my disappointment.

"Thank you, sir," I repeat. I am not sure what I was expecting, but I am wholly discouraged at his choice of the words 'several' and 'occasional.'

"I also must offer sincere apologies in regards to the unfortunate circumstances that led to you sailing alone. I know your father intended for you to travel with companions. I was thoroughly dismayed to learn not one but _both_"-I notice he places heavy emphasis on this word-"_both_ families would not be joining us."

"I was very upset, sir. I am confident my father would be quite distressed at my situation, and I fear he will be very angry when he learns I was forced to board the ship nonetheless." The captain's thick white eyebrows knit above his icy blue eyes. My thoughts inexplicably drift to Mellark and his enchanting sapphire eyes.

"Miss Everdeen, did you hear me?" I redden, equally embarrassed at being caught not listening to the captain as much as daydreaming about a lowly sailor.

"No, sir, I did not," I confess meekly. He smiles wryly, and I am only comforted that he could have no way of knowing the source of my distraction.

"I was saying, miss," he starts, a lilting reprimand to his tone, (reminding me of Miss Coin, the headmistress at Panem, before one of her lectures) "that while I am sure you were not forced to board this ship, I can understand why you might have felt trapped."

"Trapped is an apt word, sir."

"You must appreciate, Miss Everdeen, that it would have been quite difficult, indeed, to make alternate arrangements for you had you not embarked on this journey with us. There was no additional money set aside to book you passage on another ship, and even if there had been, no ship is setting course for Philadelphia for three weeks hence."

"I could have returned to Panem until my father approved of alternate arrangements," I offer softly. Captain Snow sips his tea and chuckles.

"And how, my dear girl, would you have proposed we could have gotten word to your chaperone to come back to retrieve you?" He sips his tea again and fixes his cool gaze on me.

"I do not know," I murmur, tracing my finger absently along the lip of the china cup. His smile becomes sympathetic, and he offers me the cookie tin once more.

"Miss Everdeen, I promise you this. These men can only benefit from your presence on this ship. Yes, they are a rough lot. Most of them have never been in the company of a dignified, cultured young lady such as yourself. They have never seen natural beauty." I blush at the compliment, but find the image of Mellark once more clouding my vision.

"Here is my proposal, Miss Everdeen," the captain continues, folding his hands in his lap. "Be a friend to them." He holds up a hand, no doubt in response to the shocking expression that I cannot keep off my face. "Hear me out. I am not asking you to befriend them. I am merely suggesting that you be a friend to them. I suspect you have most of your school books with you?"

"Yes, sir. My Bible too," I add, good Christian that my father would want me to be.

"Excellent. Read to them. Enlighten them with the wisdom of the Good Book and instruct them in manners and morality. We shall make the best of this." His voice exudes such self-assurance that I cannot help but feel emboldened by the task. I sit up straighter and square my shoulders.

"I shall try, sir. I will do my best." I try to match his confident tone, and he rewards me with an encouraging smile.

"I know that you shall. You remind me so much of my granddaughter, Miss Everdeen." He motions to a framed portrait on the wall just above his chair. A young woman, a demure smile playing on her thin lips, stares ahead. Her flat blue eyes match those of Captain Snow's but lack warmth, and her blonde hair held back with a pink ribbon. _Is this how I present myself to others?_ I think to myself. _Do I look so lifeless?_ _So unhappy?_

"She is lovely, sir," I fib, though it only half-lie, because the girl is classically attractive.

"Her name is Emmeline. A sweet, obedient girl. You and she could be sisters." I glance up at the painting again. His words strike me as false, because she and I look nothing alike. But her image brings to mind thoughts of my dear little sister, Primrose.

"I do have a sister, sir. Her name is Primrose."

"What an unusual name. As is your first name: Katniss. Both plants, am I correct?" I nod.

"My father has an intense interest in horticulture and nature, sir," I explain. "He thought Katniss was a unique alternative to the oft-used Katherine." I swell with pride at the details of the etymology of my name. I have always loved it in spite of its atypicalness.

"Lovely," he replies absently, nibbling on a biscuit. "Now then, Miss Everdeen. Our time is nearly up, so if I may discuss one further matter with you?" He does not wait for me to give my assent or offer a protest. "When you are reading to the men, spending time with these sailors, they will no doubt want to share their own stories with you. I can imagine they will fill your pretty little head with wild tales of foreign ports and fantastical adventures. How much of these yarns are fact and how much are fiction should be of little concern to you, Miss Everdeen. Lend them your ear and smile politely. An overactive imagination is a common coping mechanism for a lonely life at sea."

I immediately recollect the story Cinna told about Captain Snow, Mr. Boggs and the imperfectly tied knot. I cannot tell if it is a slight widening of my eyes, or an imperceptible twitch of my lips, or an unexplained sixth sense, but it seems improbably probable that Captain Snow knows Cinna has spoken to me. The captain confirms this with his next words.

"Mr. Cinna has already spoken with you, has he not?"

"Yes, sir, he has," I affirm.

"Harmless conversation, no doubt," he prods. I resist the urge to bite my lip and force a dishonest nod.

"Entertain them, Miss Everdeen," he reiterates. "As much with your ears as with your lips. Remember, miss, these sailors are largely godless men. They fear little and thus are free with their tongues. They also prey on the weak. So may I offer you a warning without frightening you too much?" My body tenses like a strung wire, but I cannot let the captain think I am some meek little girl.

"I am sixteen, sir." How foolish I sound! As if my age is reason alone for me not to be fearful!

"Very well." He leans back in his chair and scrutinizes me. "As the captain of this ship, I cannot, not for even a moment, appear weak to these men. I must be the very epitome of strength, and from time to time, to be strong may require me to be harsh. You may see me have to strike a man, perhaps with a hand, or worse, with a whip. You shall certainly hear my raise my voice. There can be no kindness between this crew and me. You understand?"

"I think so, sir."

"You had a headmistress at your boarding school, yes?" I close my eyes and immediately conjure an image of Miss Coin.

"Yes, sir."

"I grant your headmistress appeared quite cruel at times when your classmates got out of line? I can assure you, Miss Everdeen, your headmistress was simply doing what was best for her school and your education. Think of me as _The Mockingjay's_ headmistress, if you must. I am doing what is best for this ship, and thus, for your father."

"I understand, sir."

"You liked your headmistress?"

"Yes, sir," I reply hesitantly. I really had not cared much for Miss Coin. She was cold, she was brittle, and she always wore an expression like that of a snake that had just digested a large meal. But Captain Snow does not need to know my true feelings.

"And as much as you liked her, you and your classmates no doubt grumbled and complained from time to time, yes?"

"Yes, sir." That is the honest truth.

"These sailors, Miss Everdeen, will be much like your classmates. They will grumble, they will complain, and they will sometimes try to shirk their duty. All quite harmless, I can assure you, but this is your warning, miss." He reaches over to the tea service and lifts it just an inch to withdraw a sleeve of paper. Unfolding it twice, he smoothes the sheet flat and turns it towards me.

"What is this, sir?" On the paper is a large circle, a second smaller circle drawn inside it. In the space created between the two circles there are a number of scrawled lines of crude script. They resemble signatures.

"This is what sailors call a round robin, Miss Everdeen. It is a pact among men, signed in circular fashion. With a list, you see, one name must appear at the top. This presentation allows for no one man to assume responsibility."

"Responsibility for what, sir?" I ask nervously, Cinna's story once more weighing on my mind. The captain ignores my question.

"If you see one of these at any time on this ship, Miss Everdeen, you must inform me immediately. Immediately," he stresses, his voice sharp. "A round robin means danger for this ship, and for you and me. This is vital, miss. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir." My palms have begun to sweat within my gloves, and I twist the moist fabric beneath my fingertips. Captain Snow smiles.

"Good. I can see that you are a bit uneasy about this, so let me show you something before you go to put that lovely head of yours to rights." He stands and walks across to the iron cabinet that resembles my father's safe. He places a hand on the top of the cupboard and faces me. "This safe contains my collection of muskets. Eight to be exact, all loaded at the ready. But this cabinet remains locked,"-here he pulls roughly on the handle to prove his word-"and I alone know the location of the key. There are no other weapons aboard this ship." My stomach pitches, and I glance down. The dirk. I sigh. He must know of the knife.

"There is, sir," I whisper apprehensively, "another weapon on this ship." His entire demeanor changes abruptly at my words. Anger flashes in his eyes, and he clenches a fist tightly, his mouth set in a firm line.

"What? Where?" I rise from my seat and steady myself, keeping a hand on the arm of the chair.

"It is a dirk, sir. A small blade. It is currently under the mattress of my bed." There. I have answered both his questions.

"Where did you get a dirk?" he demands. The severe look on his face alarms me, and it is then I decide that I cannot tell him the real origin of the knife. Yes, Cinna has been presumptuous in offering his friendship and speaking to me as a peer rather than my inferior, but it was he who tended to me during my illness and for that small kindness, I cannot bring him harm. I have never been a good liar, so I quickly search my mind for a plausible fib to protect Cinna.

"It was in my trunk, sir, when I recovered my clothing this afternoon. I think it is one of my classmates' ideas of a cruel joke. This girl, Johanna is her name-' The captain cuts me off with a wave of his hand, his eyes softening slightly.

"If you are the only one who knows of this blade, keep it under your mattress, Miss Everdeen." I frown slightly. I protected Cinna with the lie, but Mellark was the one to escort me to my trunk. I do not wish to cause him to be caught in the yarn that I am spinning. Another white lie required.

"Mr. Mellark, sir, was kind enough to escort me to my trunk. He may have seen the dirk when I discovered it. I cannot be sure." I am satisfied with this revelation. It is not entirely untrue, after all.

"Mr. Mellark would not know you placed this dirk under your mattress, though, would he?"

"He did not come inside my cabin, no, sir," I lie. "For all he knows, if he did see it, he presumes it is still in my trunk." The captain nods, a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Very well, then. Keep the blade where it is, Miss Everdeen. You never know if you might find a use for it." Outside the cabin, five bells ring, one clear tone after the other. Captain Snow crosses back to where I stand and reaches behind me to the vase. His fingers pluck one rose from the vase, and he offers it to me. "Beware the thorns, miss." He raises my left hand to his lips. "Thank you for a lovely afternoon, Miss Everdeen. I must return to the deck now. Please, feel free to explore the ship and get your bearings. You and I shall meet again soon." He angles his left arm in front of him and gestures for me to take it. I link my right arm through his as he opens the cabin door and brings me crashing back to reality.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's**** Note**_: Thank you again for your support of this story. Your reviews mean the world to me. (And honestly, it really motivates me to edit and post each chapter quicker!) I envision updating twice a week, but I cannot make promises as I will soon be awash in student essays and report cards when our marking period ends.

I hope no one objects to my characterization and dialect for Finnick. I was teaching The Cay while writing a lot of this story and the dialogue of the Creole native in that book inspired me to try such a thing with Finn. I also decided to make him Scottish versus Irish. I have a thing for Scots.

Much thanks and love to my lovely muses, ILoveRynMar and jeeno2, for their guidance and advice, especially as the Everlark picks up speed.

* * *

It is like two completely different worlds, Captain Snow's quarters and the rest of the ship. As soon as I step over the threshold back onto the deck, the air clings to me, heavy and thick. I glance up and see most of the sails just barely pillow out. They are not snapping and billowing as they did yesterday. It feels as if we are barely moving.

The sailor who announced himself as Chaff is at the wheel, his tanned hands gripping the spokes, and beside him is Mr. Crane. The captain leaves my side and strides to the wheel.

"Mr. Crane, I suspect we shall soon have a wind of which we can take advantage."

"Sir, are you certain?" The first mate's carefully groomed eyebrows furrow, and he gazes up at the mast in puzzlement.

"Would I have said I suspected so if it was not thus, Mr. Crane?" the captain says dryly. Mr. Crane slides his eyes in my direction for a brief moment before glancing back at Captain Snow.

"I should think not, sir."

"The clouds will break momentarily, and we shall be prepared to catch the first blow that springs up." As if on command, a crack appears in the leaden sky, a sliver of blue peeking through before buttery rays stream down. The sun bursts through. Captain Snow emits a throaty, triumphant laugh.

"Tighten the braces, and bring the studding sails to hand. Now is our chance to gain time. And time is money."

"Aye, aye, sir." Mr. Crane briskly crosses the quarterdeck and grips the rail, calling out, "All hands! All hands!"

"Watch this, Miss Everdeen," Captain Snow murmurs as he passes by me.

Within seconds, the entire crew assembles on deck, forming a line and staring up at Mr. Crane, who begins to call out commands that I do not understand:

"Royal yardmen in the tops!"

"Man topgallant mast ropes!"

"Sway and unfid!"

"Adjust the rigging post haste!"

I watch, hand poised above my eyes to shield my gaze from the brilliant sunlight. I see men in the shrouds and along the standing rigging, hauling lines and shifting sails with such ease and dexterity that I am in awe. They move as swiftly above the ship as others do on solid ground. I search among the white sails and pale shirts for Mellark, but I am unable to locate him, and I feel a pinch of disappointment that surprises and alarms me.

Their actions continue for several minutes, but the ship continues to crawl over the waves at a snail's pace. For all the sailors' efforts, I cannot see a change in our speed.

I decide now might be a good time to return to my trunk once I come to the realization that, in my excitement over my clothing and the distraction of Mellark, I did not remove any of my books or my Bible. As I turn to leave the quarterdeck, I hear Captain Snow bark additional orders at Chaff.

"One point south by southwest!" the sailor echoes the command.

"Steady on!" Another echo. They might as well be speaking Greek, for all I can manage to understand their lingo.

Upon descending the steps to the main deck, I find myself directly in the path of Abernathy. A toothpick juts from his chapped lips, and a foul stench of rum emanates from his slightly-open mouth. He smirks at me and scratches the stubble lining his jaw.

"Going somewhere, sweetheart?" I set my shoulders and toss my hair. This man's impertinence irks me, and I must count to ten in my head to keep my composure.

"I am going to my trunk to retrieve my reading materials," I reply coolly, resisting the urge to add that my intentions are none of his business.

"Top cargo can be an awfully scary place for a little girl," he taunts. "Better take that dirk with you." My breath catches in my throat and escapes as a strangled gasp.

"How do you…" I cannot finish my thought before Abernathy winks at me, his eyes glazed with the evidence of his drinking.

"A ship's a very small place, sweetheart. We have very few secrets at sea." He pauses and shifts the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with only the aid of his tongue. "Did you enjoy the show?"

"Show?"

"The display that Captain Snow had us put on for you," he snorts disdainfully. "I assume that's why he had us hauling and adjusting and dancing like monkeys along the rigging."

"I am not following you, Mr. Abernathy."

"Haymitch." His grey eyes are liquid mercury, flashing with anger. "Mr. Abernathy is my father, and hopefully the bastard is burning in Hell as we speak." I blink several times, and I probably resemble a fish out of water as I process the colorful language and blasphemous words that he has spewed forth.

"Pardon, Mr. Abernathy. Where I come from it is not proper for a young lady to address any elder by his first name, whatever his station, or lack thereof, may be."

"You're quite the piece of work, ain't ya?" He spits on the deck, the glob of saliva landing several inches from my boot. "Listen to what I am about to say, sweetheart. Because unless I want a lashing, I need to get back to work. What you just saw us do, it was all for show. The captain was mocking us, putting us on display for your benefit."

I am puzzled by the accusation, and as with Cinna's story, I am more than offended that this man would dare speak to me as he has.

"Why would he do that?" I retort. I know my tone is disrespectful, but this Mr. Abernathy deserves no better.

"Control, sweetheart. The captain wants you to fall under his spell, and what better way to do that but to charm you with tea and a pretty sideshow?" An oily lock of hair falls across his eyes.

"The captain was being a gentleman inviting me to tea," I reply, recalling the pleasant conversation. Abernathy snorts again.

"Captain Snow may be of the gentleman class, but he is no gentle man."

I shiver. "You are the second man to utter those exact words," I murmur.

"And that's the second time you've accused me of repeating someone else's words." He smirks again. "Watch your step, sweetheart." He pulls the toothpick from his mouth and snaps it in two between his thumb and forefinger, flicking the wooden splints overboard before stalking off.

I draw a shaky breath, the humid air filling my lungs, causing me to cough and sputter.

"Easy there, lassie." I whirl around and find myself face to face with the sailor who announced himself as Odair. He flaunts a smile that is all teeth, gleaming white against pink gums, deep dimples accenting his bronzed cheeks, and his eyes sparkle like emeralds. His copper hair peeks out from under the black and red cap that covers his head.

"Pardon?" It is all I can muster.

"Ye'll learn t'manage yer breathing out 'ere, miss," he adds, and I can detect a tinge of a Scottish brogue to his voice. "Airs much heavier than a lassie like ye is prob'ly used t'."

"Thank you, Mr.-"

"Odair," he interrupts, bowing grandly. "Finnick Odair."

"Thank you for the advice, Mr. Odair," I repeat, amused by how charismatic this man is, a stark contrast to the ornery, offensive Abernathy.

"My pleasure," he winks. "Always glad t'be o'service t'a pretty lass." Another wide grin, and he sets off towards the forecastle.

I take a moment to collect my senses and lean on the starboard railing, gazing out at the open sea. It is a paradoxical feeling to be surrounded by nothing but ocean and yet to suffer from claustrophobia. But that is precisely the sensation I am experiencing, trapped like a caged animal on this ship.

Listening to Odair's words of caution, I slowly inhale a few measured breaths while I watch the sea roll and crash around me. To my delight, a flash just beneath the railing reveals itself to be a pod of dolphins, and I enjoy watching them leap and soar above the foaming waves until they disappear in the distance.

Resigning myself to my earlier intention to retrieve some reading materials from my trunk, I am presented with the decision if I should first go to my cabin and get the dirk, as Abernathy so snidely suggested. Was he truly warning me of danger if I proceed to top cargo on my own? Or was he simply amusing himself at my expense, hoping to scare me? What is there to truly fear down there? No doubt the rats and roaches to which. Mellark alluded, but I should hope not to be close enough to such vermin to need the defense of a knife.

On the other hand, what harm can it do to bring it with me? It is not as if I am pressed for time, and by taking the brief detour to my cabin, it will set me back. I have nothing but time!

My decision made, I return to my cabin and grab the blade in its sheath from under the mattress. The dress into which I changed earlier does not have pockets, to my dismay, so I am compelled to slip it into the boning of my corset to secret it. I also grab the candle and matches that Mellark had so kindly left before.

I slip out of my cabin and locate the hatch with ease. Mimicking Mellark, I gently place the candle between my teeth and clutch the matches tightly within my clenched fist as I begin the descent. When I reach the deck for top cargo, I find myself wishing the handsome sailor was waiting to take my hand again. Instead, I engineer a clumsy jump to the deck, misjudging the distance badly, which causes me to tumble into a careless heap on the rough floor. The matches fly from my hands and a wave of panic hits me. I need to find them, or I will have no choice but to climb back up and find another source of light.

Dim streaks of sun are filtering down from the hole, so I rise to my knees, brushing my hands against my skirts before crawling forward and feeling my way with my palms. The matches skittered off to my left, so that is the direction in which I creep.

I try not to think about how dirty the floor is, or how undignified I must look, on all fours like an animal, but I would much prefer to locate the matches than appeal to one of the crew and confess that I could not manage a simple task on my own. The creaks and groans of the planks beneath me coupled with the sloshing of the bilge water provides a macabre soundtrack to the top cargo space, I observe wryly.

A sudden crack to my right snaps my head to attention. The hair on the back of my neck prickles, and gooseflesh pimples my arms. My heart begins to beat a rapid tattoo, knocking against my rib cage.

_It is nothing. It is nothing, _I repeat silently.

"It is nothing." I declare, as if speaking the words will ease my trepidation. I resume my search, and when the fingers of my left hand cover the matches in triumph, my right hand discovers something else. It feels like skin. Skin covering a human foot.

I stifle a scream and scramble to my feet, ripping the candle from between my teeth. After fumbling with the matches, I manage to strike one and a flame roars to life in my shaking grasp. I touch the lit match to the candle wick and a soft glow fills the cavernous space. My fingers slip beneath the neckline of my dress, and I withdraw the dirk. The sheath clatters noisily to the floor, leaving me brandishing the blade.

I move deliberately, as quickly as I can without extinguishing the flame, searching the deck for whatever…whoever…it was that I touched. I see nothing but the maze of cargo that I saw during my first visit here.

My breathing begins to slow, but my nerves are still frayed, and the candle trembles as I set it down to rush to my trunk. I glance about, but the sheath is not immediately visible. I throw open the clasp and carefully comb through the contents until I find my handkerchiefs. I hurriedly swaddle the dirk in one of the linens and tuck it back between my breasts.

My eyes settle on my Bible, and I also choose three books to read to the crew, but I am not particular in my haste to get back to steerage. Books nestled into the crook of my arm, I grab the candle and bolt for the ladder. With little more grace than I did before, I blow out the flame, grip the candle in my mouth and awkwardly (and slower than I would have liked) climb the ladder. It is no easy task, and I stumble out of the hole. This time, it is the books that spill onto the floor as I haul myself over the edge.

I will not be returning to top cargo unaccompanied again.

I seek refuge in my cabin (how little comfort it actually provides is irrelevant given my current state) to gather my composure and reflect on what has just passed.

Let it be said that while my headmistresses at Panem oft accused me of having a 'curious' mind, I have never once been called 'imaginative.' Daydreaming lacks practicality, and while at school, I preferred to lose myself in the imagination of others, reading about faeries (Spenser), avenging Gods (Homer) and fallen angels (Milton). Johanna Mason was an expert at obtaining forbidden paraphernalia, though she often snickered at my request for books when I know several other immoral girls were demanding cigarettes.

It is this predilection to reality that leaves me most shaken after my second trip to top cargo. I am not one who tends to imagine things. A shudder consumes me as I recall my fingers traversing the cool, rough flesh that was unmistakably human. There is no doubt in my mind that someone was down there with me, no matter how illogical it seems. All hands had been called by Mr. Crane in my presence, and though the sailors on afternoon watch remained on duty when the "show" (Abernathy's words, not mine) ceased, there would have been no way for any of the off-watch sailors to reach top cargo before I. Mellark had explained to me the only access once at sea was the route he and I had taken earlier.

Furthermore, of what purpose would it serve for one of the crew to be in top cargo? To frighten me? How should he know I would return to my trunk so soon after visiting earlier? And why not just reveal himself once I discovered him? I was loath to admit it, but there would be much easier ways to frighten me than by lying in wait.

After much deliberation, it is the chiming of three bells that pushes the incident from my mind. One of my greatest prides is the facility with which I acquire new information, and I am pleased that I have already learned the demarcation of time on the ship. Each day is divided into seven watches, five of which span four hours and the other two lasting just two. Midwatch begins at midnight and ends at four in the morning, followed by three four-hour watches. The two shorter watches, called first and second dog watch, occur in early evening (four o'clock to six o'clock, and six o'clock to eight o'clock).

The first or second mate, therefore, rings a series of bells to indicate the half-hours of each watch.

The three chimes I hear tell me that afternoon watch had ended while I was down at my trunk, (tea with Captain Snow, I knew for certainty, was at three o'clock in the afternoon, daily) and it was now nearing the end of the first dog watch, half-past five in the afternoon.

Dinner and supper are not the same thing to sailors, I also soon learn. Dinner is at midday, and supper is set out in steerage, at mates' mess, at quarter to six. This allows the first dog watch to eat just prior to work, and food is still available and hot (which is a relative term, as the salted and cured meats that Cinna serves are rarely heated) for the afternoon watch as their shift ends.

I wander out of my cabin and venture into steerage, where I am greeted with a warm smile by Cinna.

"Miss Everdeen, good evening." Given that it is just days from Midsummer Eve, the longest day of the year, the sun never disappears into the waves until well into night watch. It seems strange to hear him utter 'good evening' with the thin orange disk still fairly high in the sky. I smile politely in reply but remain silent, watching as he lays out the tray of meats, bowls of rice and beans and a pot of coffee. It is the same menu each night.

My gaze lands on a bowl of fluffy white clouds of meringue.

"What is that?" I inquire, indicating the new offering. Cinna's expression alights, his gold eyes glinting.

"Ah, Miss Everdeen has never met the acquaintance of duff."

"Duff?"

"Duff," he repeats. "Seaman's delight. Like a pudding, miss. Boiled flour, raisins, and tonight, I think Mellark snuck a bit of molasses in there."

"Mr. Mellark made this?" I cannot suppress the astonishment in my voice.

"Aye, miss, but you did not hear that from me." He presses a slender finger to his lips. "I shall be right back." He slips from steerage and leaves me momentarily alone to contemplate this revelation.

I cannot tell which perplexes me more: Mellark's experimentation in Cinna's galley (first the tea, now the duff) or the fact that Cinna has implied this must remain secret.

"So, lassie, we meet again." I recognize the accent before I turn around to face Odair.

"Hello, Mr. Odair," I reply. He rewards me with a broad, amiable grin, those cavernous dimples highlighting his mouth. He is impossibly good-looking, and his broad physique reminds me of a Greek God. At this close proximity, I take notice of a large tattoo adorning his left bicep. The nude state of the woman shocks me initially, but as the curvy figure takes shape I realize it is meant to be a mermaid, dark locks cascading over her breasts and her flat torso giving way to a scaly tail.

"Did that hurt?" I cannot quell my curiosity and gesture at the artwork. Odair laughs airily and waggles his arm.

"This? Aye, miss. Like 'ell." He frowns slightly, and offers a quick apology for swearing in my presence. "But sometimes momentary pain can bring about permanent pleasure, and fer me, I 'ave no regrets."

"Ah, Mr. Odair. Always the first to arrive." Mr. Cinna returns, a stack of tin plates in his arms. He hands one to Odair, whose smile widens, if that is at all possible.

"I'm a growing lad, Cinna," he teases, earning a laugh from Cinna.

I hang back as the rest of Odair's watch filters in, filling their plates and chatting quietly amongst themselves. I earn the occasional glance, most unfriendly and suspicious and the most frequent looks are from the steely glare of Abernathy.

"What I wouldn't give to have duff every night!" Marvel cries, spooning a bite into his mouth. He is not unattractive, but his dark eyes certainly hint at a mean streak. "Compliments to the chef," he adds.

Cinna smiles, sliding his eyes to meet mine. I look away hastily.

Four bells strike, loud and clear, and the assembled sailors grumble and leave their nearly-empty plates for Cinna to clear. Odair lifts a corner of his mouth and winks in my direction while Abernathy scowls and shoves a toothpick into his maw as he exits. The rest file out, giving Cinna their thanks, and he and I are left alone again, awaiting the crew from the watch that has just concluded.

Which includes Mellark.

The sudden realization that he was on watch this afternoon dawns on me, and I know understand why his foray into cooking must be kept silent. Should Captain Snow learn he deviated from his assigned duty for even a moment, he would no doubt be punished, despite the fact he was not idle or shirking work. Not exactly, anyway.

Cinna nods at me, silently confirming my suspicions. It unsettles me how this black man can seemingly read my mind.

Cinna offers me a plate, which I accept reluctantly. (I never thought I would miss the bland cuisine of Panem, but I long for variety more than anything.) I chew quietly and thoughtfully until the crew of the afternoon watch enters. I discreetly (at least, I hope I am discreet) examine Mellark as he shuffles in, sweat glistening on his brow and staining his thin shirt. His blond curls lay flat against his forehead, limp from exertion, and his posture screams his exhaustion. I wonder what task to which he was assigned that has left him so visibly fatigued.

He glimpses in my direction, and our eyes meet for a split second. I look away immediately, fighting a blush, but it is in vain as he maneuvers closer to where I am standing.

"Miss Everdeen," he says softly, bowing slightly in greeting. For a sailor, his manners are impeccable.

"Good evening, Mr. Mellark," I return, my voice hoarse. My tongue suddenly feels too big for my mouth, and I struggle to swallow. My heart skips a beat, and when it resumes its pounding the pace feels as if a hummingbird is thrumming against my rib cage. _What is wrong with me?_ I wonder, as the wavering sensation migrates into my stomach.

"Did you eat already, miss?" he asks. "I hope those men on first dog watch remembered their manners. Ladies first," he adds quickly.

"Yes, I did eat, thank you." I pause, wondering whether I should praise his attempt at the duff. Judging by the sailors' reactions, it is a rare treat, and thus, is much appreciated. Would he want me knowing he was the one to prepare it? "The duff was delicious."

"I am sure you are used to much more decadent indulgences, Miss Everdeen, but your words flatter me." His blue eyes captivate me, and I am still staring at him, my pulse racing, when he excuses himself to get his supper. Flustered, I mutter a quiet 'thank you' to Cinna and retreat from steerage, seeking fresh air to regulate the responses of my traitorous body.

I climb to the forecastle deck, resting my forearms along the rail, breathing shallowly as my heart rate gradually returns to normal. Glancing skyward, I see clouds edged with rose and crimson drifting by lazily. The sun, like a broken egg yolk, slips down towards the horizon.

I am thoroughly confused by the strange stirrings I feel when Mr. Mellark is near. The only logical explanation I can gather is unfamiliarity. For the last eight years at Panem, I have had virtually no interaction with the opposite gender. There were rumors that a few of the more rebellious girls had snuck off campus on occasion to meet boys from several nearby all-male academies, but I was never brave enough to risk expulsion to such a thing. I do not know for certain how old Mellark is, but perhaps my interest in him is simple proximity.

A niggling voice in my subconscious reminds me that Odair is equally handsome and his presence elicits nowhere near the same response. I quickly suppress the idea.

The sudden urge to purge my thoughts overwhelms me, and I make a dash for my cabin, walking as briskly as I can in my formal attire. Digging through my valise, I successfully locate my journal and my quill pen and ink, and I settle (as best I can) on my bed to jot down all that had transpired thus far in my journey. I stop but once, in the waning daylight, to light the candle. The words gush from my head, my hand striving to keep up with them, and my fingers cramp from clutching the pen so tightly. By the time I close the book and set down the pen, the darkness outside my cabin door is complete.

Leaving the candle burning so as to have some light to see by when I return, (and I am later reprimanded for doing so by Abernathy in that my foolishness could have started a blaze that could have doomed a wooden ship. Of all the people to wander by my cabin in my absence!) I slip out of my cabin, quietly closing the door behind me. A sliver of silvery moonlight peers down from dark, scuttling clouds, and I am dumbstruck at the smattering of stars above my head. Pinpricks of light pulse and twinkle in the obsidian sky. So many, many stars. It is a beautiful sight.

My eyes are tracing the patterns the stars form, searching for the few constellations that I know, when a quiet cough draws my attention down from the sky.

"You enjoy star-gazing, Miss Everdeen?" In the dim moonlight, I can still see those blue irises, the golden eyelashes, the angular jaw.

"I have never seen so many stars in all my life," I reply honestly, my heart beginning to speed its cadence as Mellark laughs softly.

"It is easy to see them with nothing but sea and sky out here, miss." He leans against the rail next to me, and my pulse too begins to thrum.

"Are you not on watch, Mr. Mellark?" And I immediately cringe inwardly, as my tone is more accusatory than interrogatory.

"Yes, Miss Everdeen, as a matter of fact, I am. You just happen to be in the path of my current assignment." I jump back, earning a louder chuckle from him.

"My apologies," I sputter.

"No worries, miss," he smiles. "Just inspecting the jibs." He reaches over my head and grips the jib boom, his arm going taut, muscles rippling like the sea rushing below us. At this closeness, I can see the short blond stubble stippling his chin, and I smell a heady scent, not unpleasant, but distinctly masculine.

"I shall leave you to your work, then." I back away from the rail. Mellark swings himself up onto it with ease and calls down to me.

"Miss Everdeen!"

"Yes?"

"Perhaps some evening in the future when I am not on watch at this hour you would regard the stars with me?"

In spite of the erratic beating of my heart and the heat creeping across my cheeks at his proposal, I cannot deny that it is improper, nonetheless, for him to make such a suggestion. Being in the same place together and having a civil conversation can be deemed coincidence. For him to proposition me, it is as much a breech of decorum as Cinna forcing the dirk upon me.

"I do not think that would be proper, Mr. Mellark. But thank you for the invitation." And I pivot quickly on my heel, not wishing to see his reaction or allow him to get in another word that might crumble my resolve even slightly.

It is nearly impossible to find sleep when I return to my cabin, dress in my nightclothes and settle in my bed. Those blue eyes haunt me each time I close my own, and I toss and turn restlessly until finally, I drift off, the name Mellark slipping from my lips as I slumber.

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_**A/N-**I hope to have Chapter 5 up by Wednesday at the latest. Reviews are a great motivator! _


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Note:** _Thank you again so much for continuing to read this story and enjoy the journey...literally. I am humbled by your kind reviews and read and respond to every single one.

Thank you to everlarkrecs for promoting A Favorable Wind and all the wonderful gals on tumblr who have reblogged the recommendation. Not being on tumblr, I appreciate the word of mouth!

And finally as always, there aren't enough words to thank my sounding boards, ILoveRynMar and jeeno2.

* * *

I do not cross paths with Mellark for the next few days. This is not to say that I do not notice him. Indeed, the opposite seems to be true.

Most of my hours during the day are spent in idleness; with no assigned chores like those to which the sailors must attend and no companions to whom to talk, I have nothing more to occupy my time than to stroll the decks and observe the men.

So it becomes a sort of game for me, a means of staving off my ennui, to watch Mellark at work. I notice that he is often the sailor charged with the task of scraping the bow and repainting the figurehead. He always mounts the bowsprit gracefully, lying prone and twisting his body just so as he meticulously applies fresh paint to the snarling bird that adorns the front of the ship.

When he climbs into the rigging to reef sails or adjust lines, he does so with the nimble dexterity of a chimpanzee. It is thrilling to watch the ease with which he darts from ratline to ratline or scales the mast.

I decide my least favorite task for him to be assigned is keeping watch in the royal yard. At that height, he is little more than a miniature against the billowing sails and azure sky. Then it is four long hours before I catch glimpse of him again.

One particular morning near the end of the forenoon watch, I am pretending to read Constancy Rewarded, my nose carefully buried in the tome, when Mellark and Cato appear on deck, holystones in hand and each carrying a pail. My eyes flick over the top of the pages sporadically, sneaking peeks at the two men. They are on their hands and knees, as if in prayer. (I later learn that is the source of the term _holystoning._) Their hands move over the deck in rhythmic circles, scrubbing away the filth and grime that has accumulated on the planks since they were holystoned yesterday. I cannot fathom that the decks get sufficiently dirty in the course of twenty-four hours that this particular task requires daily attention, but Captain Snow has proven himself fastidious in his cleanliness.

Mellark and Cato scour in silence, mostly, but occasionally I hear one murmur something to the other or quiet laughter. I turn my pages loudly, as if to prove my focus is on the book in my hands and not them. Every once in awhile, Cato shoots me a withering glare, but Mellark never once turns in my direction.

The sun climbs steadily towards its zenith at noon, so the rays beam down, the heat relentless as we near the hottest part of the day. My hair clings to the back of my sweaty neck and my dress smothers me like an oven, roasting me from the inside out. I envy the men, wearing little more than their thin cotton shirts and canvas breeches, many forsaking shoes and favoring stocking feet.

The men complete their scrubbing and continue to the second element of their cleaning; caulking. The pounding of the mallets as they drive the oakum between the planks breaks the silence and my feigned concentration. Cato drops his mallet to the deck and lengthens his body, rolling his shoulders twice. In a swift, fluid motion, he peels the sweat-soaked shirt off and wipes his face with it. I raise my book over my face, concealing my jaw as it drops. The sailor is now shirtless.

I have never seen a man in such a state before. Not in the flesh, anyhow. At Panem, I once had the occasion to steal a glance at a human anatomy textbook that Clove Simmons had pilfered from her physician father while she was at home one summer. And I had seen a reproduction of Michelangelo's _David_ two years earlier before Miss Paylor, our sweet young cultural arts teacher, was quickly terminated by Headmistress Coin for "exposing our girls to scandalous, licentious filth." (Art has fascinated me ever since.)

Cato's upper torso, I must say, appears to be a similar work of art. I am just beginning to study him (as a good art student should) when my breath catches between my lungs and my throat.

Mellark mops at the sweat on his forehead with his own discarded shirt, leaving him in the same state of semi-nudity as the other sailor. He dabs the fabric along his hairline, pushing back his wet blond locks before trailing it down the defined line of his jaw. Beads of sweat meander down his neck, merging into rivulets along his clavicle. I let my eyes follow one stray ribbon of sweat as it maps a course across the planed muscles of his abdomen. It disappears into a thin trail of fine blond hair that leads my vision to the edge of Mellark's breeches. Does the hair continue? The thought of what else lies beneath the canvas fabric floods my cheeks with warmth. My stomach twists into a knot, and a strange sensation below my belly causes me to clench my thighs involuntarily. It suddenly feels one thousand times hotter on deck than it did five minutes ago.

Mellark neatly folds his shirt and drops it behind him as he resumes his caulking. The muscles in his shoulders strain and swell beneath his glistening skin with each strike of the mallet.

"Like what you see, miss?"

"Oh!" I drop my book in shock as Cato stands before me, a smirk on his tanned face, and one hand on his hip, the other clutching the mallet that rests on his left shoulder. I fumble to pick it up and locate my page, flipping pages absently as a furious flush creeps up my neck.

Cato snickers and stalks back to Mellark, muttering something to him that finally causes Mellark to shift his eyes towards me. Those penetrating blue eyes regard me, his handsome face slack, betraying no show of emotion, and embarrassed, I scramble to my feet and race from the deck.

I think I hear laughter behind me as I stumble away. My boot catches on the step and I begin to lurch forward.

"Whoa, sweetheart. Where's the fire?" Abernathy grabs my elbow to steady me, preventing my fall. He releases me as soon as my balance is restored. "What's got you spooked?"

"Nothing," I reply quietly, too caught up in my own humiliation to feel indignant over his usual crass demeanor. "Thank you for breaking my fall," I add.

"Broken bones are the last thing you need at sea. Cinna's a far better cook than he is a doctor," Abernathy quips. It is the first thing he has spoken to me that is not laced with sarcasm. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"Why do you call me that?" I snarl, my shame melting into anger. "It is hardly appropriate for a man of your class to address me as such!"

The hardened stare returns to Abernathy's grey eyes. "Just when I thought we was makin' progress." He grunts and plucks a cigarette from behind his left ear, tucks it under his lip and retreats, leaving me alone on the deck.

I seek sanctuary in my cabin, allowing the hot tears to spill over once I am secure inside the little closet. I allow myself to cry for a little while, but eventually the sniffles subside and I do not realize that I have drifted off to sleep until a light knock rouses me.

"Miss Everdeen, miss?"

"Yes?" I sit upright at Mr. Crane's voice outside my door.

"Captain Snow sent me, miss. He was concerned when you did not arrive promptly for tea."

"It is time for tea already?" I slide off the pallet and smooth down my dress. After his initial comments, I did not think that my presence at tea would be a daily occurrence. A quick drag of the brush through my hair, and I pray that I am presentable enough for the captain's company. Hopefully my lengthy nap has eased the swelling that I know beset my eyes after my crying fit.

Tea is uneventful, though lovely. Captain Snow is a gracious host, and he allows me to dominate the conversation, prattling on about my time at Panem or my hopes for what shall find upon my return to my home in Philadelphia. (How strange it seems to call a place 'home' when I have not been there in so long.) For one precious half-hour, I immerse myself in familiarity, nestled in the plush chair, sipping my tea from real china. He never asks if anything is troubling me, so I draw the conclusion my eyes do not reveal the depths of my earlier vexation.

When the bell announces the end of the half-hour, Captain Snow rises.

"Thank you again for your company, Miss Everdeen." I drain the last of my tea and set the china cup down on its saucer then I also stand.

"Thank you, sir, for the tea."

"My pleasure, miss. If I may remind you, Miss Everdeen, before you go: show these men some Christian kindness. Do not be afraid to have some degree of interaction so that you may enlighten them with your books and your grace."

"I shall try, sir."

"And Miss Everdeen, please also remember. Keep your ears open."

"I will, sir." I curtsy and return to the world of the uncivilized.

I heed the captain's advice and over the course of the next week, I attempt to slowly ingratiate myself to the crew.

It commences on Sunday, where informal religious observances are held. The captain begins with a lecture to the men on their duties to the ship and to God. (It does not go unnoticed that he puts the ship first.) He then encourages me to stand and read a biblical passage, which he allows me to choose.

My school placed little (none, to be truthful) emphasis on the nuances of public speaking for women, so I find myself shaking with nerves as I rise to my feet and face the entire crew, less Abernathy, who is manning the wheel (though I note with some cynicism that of all the men, he is most in need of hearing the words of the Bible) and Mr. Crane. My fingers tremble faintly as they flip the pages to the passage I have selected. I clear my throat quietly and begin to read.

I did not always listen as well as I should have during Reverend Templesmith's sermons, but the Twenty-Third Psalm was always a favorite of my father's, and I figure it is as good a place as any to start with "godless men," as Captain Snow called them.

"The Lord is my Shepherd," I start, my voice quavering, my palms sweating. "I shall not want." I can recite this psalm by memory, but it is a comfort to see the words on the page rather than be forced to make eye contact with the sailors. With each quick glance up, I am met with equal parts glowering, blistering glares and vacant, hollow stares. Cato sneers at me, a lecherous smile plastered across his face. Odair gives me an encouraging nod, the corners of his lips turned slightly upward.

I continue reading, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. When I reach the end of the psalm, I sneak a quick glimpse at Mellark. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting second before I get even more flustered and look away.

"Thank you, Miss Everdeen. Lovely choice. Mr. Thread, you may dismiss the crew."

"Crew dismissed," Mr. Thread announces.

"Except for Mr. Marvel," the captain adds.

"Mr. Marvel, you are not dismissed," Mr. Thread declares. Marvel exchanges an apprehensive glance with Cato, who shrugs before retreating to steerage with the rest of the crew. The men scatter like pillbugs, leaving Marvel alone on the deck with the captain and Mr. Thread.

Mr. Thread looks over at Captain Snow, who nods deliberately.

"Mr. Marvel, step forward." Marvel obediently shuffles forward several steps, but from my position, I can see a vein in his neck pulsing erratically and his left eye twitching.

"Mr. Marvel." Captain Snow's voice takes me by surprise. He never directly addresses the sailors.

"Sir?"

"Show me your hands." A bewildered look enters Marvel's eyes, but he immediately does as he is asked, extending his hands, palms up. Captain Snow studies them critically and cocks his head.

"Do they hurt?"

"They're fine, sir."

"Really?" The captain feigns shock. "I thought perhaps something ailed you, or you had broken a bone, although neither would have been a valid excuse for shirking work, which you have done."

"I'm not following, sir." Marvel shifts nervously from side to side, withdrawing his hands and linking them together behind his back.

"This," the captain spits, gesturing to a large bundle of canvas suddenly draped over Mr. Thread's outstretched arms, "is to what I am referring!" Mr. Thread dumps the sail onto the deck, allowing Captain Snow to unfurl its length, revealing a hole approximately ten centimeters in length. (I always seem to think in metric measurement after so many years in England, but the sailors use the customary units and I do eventually refamiliarize myself with them.) It is minute, as far as holes would be concerned, no more than a tear really, but I gather any rip in a sail can have severe consequences when a sail aims to catch the wind.

"Were you not given an order to patch this sail yesterday morn, Mr. Marvel?" the captain roars. Marvel flinches and rakes a hand through his hair.

"Uh, yes, sir, Mr. Thread gave me that order, sir," he stammers.

"I see. And are we in the business of blatantly defying orders, Mr. Marvel?"

My discomfort for being caught in the middle of Marvel's reprimand extends to panic for the sailor when I see Mr. Thread place a belaying pin (which is used by the sailors to secure lines of rigging) into the captain's outstretched palm. He closes his fingers around the heavy wooden dowel, tapping it ominously against his other open palm. I swallow, my mouth dry as cotton.

"No, sir," Marvel announces, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. "I thought…"

"Your first mistake," the captain barks. "You are not paid to think, you are paid to follow orders."

"It's a spare sail, sir," Marvel retorts, and fire flashes in Captain Snow's eyes.

It happens so fast that I do not even register the strike until I hear the sickening crack and see the red bloom across Marvel's cheek. The sailor's hand flies up to shield a second blow. But it does not come. The captain casts the dowel aside and fixes his severe gaze on Marvel.

"An order is an order. The next time, Mr. Marvel, I will not be so kind. You defy another order or have the audacity to be even a second tardy in any task assigned to you, and I will have your pathetic hide confined to the brig. Your salary will be docked. Your meals shall be stopped. And I would be remiss if I had to resort to keelhauling. So do not push me, Mr. Marvel. You can pass that along to your loyal crew mates, as I know you shall." He turns his back on the stoic sailor. "Mr. Thread, dismiss this dog."

"Dismissed, Mr. Marvel."

Marvel slides his eyes in my direction; I can see the wounded pride and seething hatred mottled in them. I release a breath I was not aware that I was holding as he stalks away from us.

The captain rocks back on his heels, but he does not turn around; instead, he strides away purposefully, head held high. A pregnant silence falls upon Mr. Thread and me.

He is about to leave when my inquisitiveness gets the best of me.

"Mr. Thread, sir? What is keelhauling?"

The second mate hesitates.

"The most unpleasant of punishments, miss." His raspy tone reminds me of when Miss Portia's lengthy nails would accidentally scrape against the blackboard. "A line is secured to the offending sailor, he is thrown overboard, and finally he is pulled from one side of the ship to the other."

"But, sir…"

"Under water, Miss Everdeen." He answers my unspoken question before I can ask it. My eyes are saucers, I know, and I cover my agape mouth because I cannot close it, so horrified am I.

"Does that not kill the poor man?" I gasp, my stomach roiling.

"If he is lucky," Mr. Thread replies. "It depends if the drag is from side to side or from bow to stern. Slow dragging is the more humane, as the sailor often drowns mercifully. A quick keelhaul has been known to decapitate men."

The bile rises quickly, and I am fortunate to make it to the rail just in time to retch my breakfast into the foaming sea.

The memory of the incident with Marvel unsettles me, and thus, it remains with me for the remainder of the morning. I know it was within Captain Snow's rights to strike Marvel if he did indeed shirk an order, but it was the first occasion I had to witness an act of physical punishment between the captain and a crew member. The name _Boggs_ chants over and over in my mind, and when I close my eyes, I am beset by a vision of a one-armed faceless man. It is no surprise, then, that when I settle on the deck to further read my Bible, I continue my reading from Exodus.

A shadow falls across the pages, and I shield my eyes and glance up to see a clean-shaven Odair grinning down at me. Sundays are the only day so far as I can tell that the sailors attend to their personal hygiene: bathing, washing their clothes and shaving, if they shave at all.

"What are ye reading, lassie?"

"The Bible, Mr. Odair," I reply, matter-of-factly, as if I would be reading anything else on the Sabbath. He nods.

"Ye did a nice job this mornin', Miss Everdeen," he says kindly, and I blush at the compliment.

"Thank you, Mr. Odair. I did my best. I was a little nervous."

"Ah, it didn't show, lassie. Too much," he adds with a wink. I giggle. I cannot explain what it is about Odair that I find so endearing, but I disappoint myself with how quickly I let down my guard around him. We have already had several enlightening conversations, mostly about trivial things. "May I sit?" Pleasantly surprised by the request, I nod, and he settles himself beside me, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

"Would you like me to read you another passage?" I motion to my Bible.

"If ye'd like."

After several verses from Exodus, Odair begins to knead at the back of his neck with the pads of his fingers. He grunts softly and a grimace overtakes his handsome face.

"Are you in pain, Mr. Odair?"

"Nay, lassie. "T'isn't pain. Just an achin' muscle that needs t'be loosened." My eyes are drawn again to the intricate tattoo.

"You told me that hurt," I remind him. "Was that not pain?" Sorrow creeps into his lovely green eyes.

"Nay, lassie, it hurt fer a wee bit. Again, 'tis not the same thing as the pain I've known." He does not continue, so I flip through the Bible and locate another psalm to read to him. I sense that his attention is not fully on the words, but I read nevertheless. Odair picks absently at a blister on his thumb.

"Why a mermaid?" I ask when I conclude the psalm. Odair remains silent for a moment and sighs.

"She is me guardian," he replies quietly, pressing a soft kiss to his bicep. "Protection against the perils o'a life at sea."

"I see." I pause. "What made you want to sail, Mr. Odair?" I know it is not any of my business, and I can practically hear my father scolding me across the Atlantic, but Odair entrances me. His bronzed eyebrows knit in concentration, and he averts my gaze, as if he is trying to collect his thoughts.

"'Twas nothin' left fer me on land, lassie," he answers. He does not offer anything further. We sit, both of us in pensive silence again, for several minutes before he clears his throat.

"Her name was Annie," he begins, his voice thick.

I listen, rapt, knowing he is about to share something very personal with me.

"We were t'be married. She loved the sea." His sentences are clipped, as if the act of speaking is suddenly too much to bear. His Adam's apple bobs repeatedly.

"You are using the past tense, Mr. Odair," I say dumbly. He catches his lower lip in his teeth and laughs ruefully.

"Aye, lassie. I lost 'er. To th'sea. Annie loved t'swim. She was a fish, spendin' all her free time at the seashore, wadin' in the waves. But one mornin' the tide was high…the sea…she was too strong. Annie didn't 'ave a chance."

"Oh, Mr. Odair," I whisper softly, tears pooling in my own eyes. I want so badly to be able to offer him some comfort, a kind touch, but I know it would be improper. He smiles sadly and traces the curves of the mermaid on his arm.

"'er body never did wash ashore. I tell myself she's where she'd want t'be. With the sea." He stands and arches his back, the muscles in his back undulating as he rolls his shoulders. "So that, Miss Everdeen, is what brought me t'sea. 'Tis where I can be closest t'me Annie."

"Thank you for sharing that with me," I say softly, a sincere smile on my lips. "I am so very sorry for your loss."

Presently, the mournful Odair vanishes, and he offers me his familiar, toothy grin.

"T'is nice t'have an ear t'share with, lassie," he winks. "Maybe tomorrow ye can read me something new?"

"It would be my pleasure, Mr. Odair."

Spending time with Odair seems to widen my appeal to the rest of the crew, and slowly, more of the men begin to engage in small interactions with me. At first, it is just reading to them from my books and answering polite questions about the lessons the stories imparted. But as my comfort among them grows, I begin asking questions of my own.

Inquisitive by nature, I pepper the sailors with my endless queries about the ship, sailing terms and nautical language. Most are equally gracious in their replies.

Our mutual questions give way to the sailors sharing some of the fantastical tales of which Captain Snow cautioned me the men might tell. I surprise myself by hardly caring which could have even an ounce of truth to them.

Brutus, a large hulking man with a handlebar mustache and a web of scars crossing his left cheek, is a particularly animated storyteller: castaways stranded on deserted islands; angels mysteriously appearing in the highest reaches of the rigging; ghosts whispering on deck after midnight. He commands a captivated audience, of which I am an eager participant, with his booming baritone and measured cadence.

The _Mockingjay_ becomes increasingly freer to me; that is, I begin to feel as though I no longer stick out among the men like a sore thumb. I venture from place to place with more ease, and those suspicious looks are cast less frequently in my direction. Several of the sailors even start to trust me with minor tasks (fetching items, usually). They still, however, treat me like a piece of glass, and they continue to censor their speech, biting back curse words with frequency.

I am, after all, not one of them.

Cinna and I become particularly close as the days pass. As the ship's cook, he has the most free time to lavish on me, and his docile, gentle nature makes it impossible not to grow fond of him. I spend hours in the galley listening to him talk while he prepares the meals, and he returns the favor by allowing me to inundate him with more questions about life at sea.

He confesses to me that he did not intend to become a sailor, and he is infinitely happier with his position as cook than he was as a common tar. (It also pays better, he winks.) His parents died when he was very young, and he was sent to live with an elderly aunt who showed no affection toward him and enjoyed beating him when chores were not completed to her satisfaction. (It is not lost on me how much his aunt resembles Captain Snow in temperament.) When he could endure the beatings no more, he ran away from home. He does not elaborate on what his first choice of profession was, but I know the color of his skin no doubt greatly limited his options.

Being black, Cinna is the victim of many cruel jokes and scandalous language. Cato, in particular, is especially nasty, and I hear words muttered under his breath (when he thinks that I cannot hear him) that I have never heard uttered before. I find my sympathy towards the kind-hearted man mounting with each subsequent malicious taunt.

I am sitting in the galley with him one afternoon, shelling beans, when Cinna poses a question that catches me completely off-guard.

"Miss Everdeen, do you not like Mr. Mellark?"

"What?" I jump, and the bowl into which I am shelling the beans clatters to the floor. I scramble to clean the mess. Cinna holds up a hand and gestures at me to return to my seat, kneeling to pick up the beans one by one. I am grateful for his temporary attention to the task, as it keeps my flaming cheeks from his curious eyes.

It has not gone unnoticed by me that despite many of the sailors seeking my company on a more regular basis, Mellark is not one of them. He keeps a careful distance, never being outwardly rude, but never doing anything to place himself in closeness to me.

It pains me to think I truly offended him by rejecting his invitation to study the stars, but my pride prevents me from doing anything to rectify the offense. I was not wrong to decline, not at that point in time. But now, I am mortified that Cinna has perceived the reservations between the handsome sailor and me.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason," he replies slyly. "I just don't see you reading to him as you do with most of the others. You rarely even speak to him."

"I rarely speak to Mr. Abernathy!" I blurt defensively. It is the truth; though I have read to the surly man on several occasions, we keep our personal conversation to a curt minimum. I am confident the man harbors no pleasant thoughts about me.

"He is a tough nut to crack," Cinna agrees, carrying the refilled bowl to the galley's sink. He rinses the beans and pats them dry with a cloth. "Excuse me, miss, if I am out of line for saying so, but it's just that…our first few days at sea, after you recovered from your illness, you and Mr. Mellark seemed…friendly."

"You are out of line, Mr. Cinna," I huff. "You and I already discussed the impropriety of me befriending any man aboard this ship."

"We did," he nods, regarding me carefully. "But you may wish to give the young man a second chance, Miss Everdeen. You may be surprised at what you discover if you afford him the same compassion you've extended to the rest of the crew."

I am sufficiently annoyed by his presumptuousness, but I do feel a twinge of remorse at shunning Mellark. I fear I have been so obvious with my haughtiness that I have hurt his feelings.

"Mellark has kept his distance from me," I accuse. Cinna's lips curve into a knowing smile.

"Not an easy thing to do on so small a ship, miss." I furrow my brow.

"Let us not speak in riddles, Mr. Cinna."

He chuckles softly. "I wasn't aware that my words were puzzling to you, Miss Everdeen." He busies himself at the sink and my frustration boils over. But before I can lash out at him, he turns and his calm visage breaks into a broad grin.

"I almost forgot, miss!" He shuffles a few steps to his left and opens a low cabinet. "I have a gift for you." His excitement is palpable, but I remember his last gift all too well. I hold my breath as he places a small bundle on the table in front of me. My fingers creep forward and touch the neatly folded pile.

I discover a thin blouse, ruffles at the neck and sleeves, and a pair of canvas trousers, near miniatures of the garments the crew dons each day, albeit a touch more feminine. I gaze at Cinna in surprise. His toffee skin glows with delight.

"I made them for you," he acknowledges shyly. "If you are going to be doing errands for the men and climbing about the ship, miss, I thought it might be nice to have garments that offer a bit more comfort and modesty, not to mention provide you a mite more safety. Those skirts of yours might prove dangerous to you as you scuttle about."

"Th-thank you," I stammer, overwhelmed by the kindness of his gesture, but equally horrified by the thought of wearing such crude clothing. "I fear, however, it would not be proper for me to dress in these."

"They are a gift, Miss Everdeen. What you do with them is your priority." He returns to the sink and begins to prepare the afternoon's coffee. I chew my lower lip expectantly, thank him once more and gather the garments in my arms, retiring to my cabin. I stow the garments in the bulkhead chest. They will make, at the least, a nostalgic souvenir of this queer voyage.

As I settle onto my bed with my journal for my daily writing, my stomach pitches in queasy waves and my heart clenches tightly. I consider Cinna's observations regarding Mellark. Why does it bother me so that I might have offended the man? He is just a sailor, and in a few short weeks, I will depart this ship and never see him again.

I do not allow myself to consider that is the very reason for my anxiety.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note: **_Thank you for your responses to Chapter 5. I am excited for you all to see the emotional journey that Katniss is about to embark upon! It begins now...so please continue to share your thoughts and theories with me! Your reviews make my day.

Pilgrim's Progress belongs to John Bunyan, Gulliver's Travels belongs to Jonathan Swift, and as before, I do not own anything THG-related and much credit for the sailing terms goes to the original Avi novel.

Many thanks to the goddess that are jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar. You inspire me.

* * *

One night's sleep is not enough to chase my worries from my mind (nor the vision of his bare, muscled torso glistening with sweat), and I awaken the next morning still agitated over my stalemate with Mellark. After pacing in my cabin for longer than I would like to admit, I brush my hair and when the fifth knot catches the bristles and makes me cry out in pain, I give up and weave it into a thick plait down my back, securing it with a ribbon. I dress quickly and set out for the deck. If I should encounter Mellark along the way-well, then I would take it as an auspicious sign that I should extend an olive branch.

Alas, he is not on deck.

The sun's early morning rays cast everything in a buttery light, and I squint into the brightness, searching for the golden-haired man in the rigging.

He is not aloft either.

Aside from top cargo and the hold below it, there is but one other area on the ship where I have yet to visit: the crew's quarters, in the forecastle area just in front of the mast. If Mellark is not on watch, then there is a good chance that he is there, probably resting if he was just on morning watch.

I gather my courage and make my way to the forecastle, pausing outside the door, raising my closed fist to knock. But before I can strike the door, muffled voices become audible to my ear.

"…should be you to give the word."

"Agreed, it can only be you."

"It needs to be soon…pushing us too hard…too much to bear." As the words fade in and out of clarity, a loud belch behind me forces a gasp from my lips. I whirl about to face Abernathy.

"Didn't they teach you at that fancy school'a yours that eavesdropping ain't ladylike?"

"I was not eavesdropping!" I protest. He laughs, a sharp barking sound.

"And I'm the fuckin' King of England." My jaw drops at his language as much as his choice not to censor his speech in my presence this time. He scratches his chin and leans against the doorjamb, hovering over me. "What brings you down to mingle with us commoners?"

"I was looking for Mr. Mellark."

"He's on watch."

"I did not see him on deck."

"Manning the wheel," Abernathy replies. "Whaddya want with the boy?"

"It is not important nor is it any of your business."

"That pink in your cheeks says otherwise, sweetheart." He openly smirks at me. My blush deepens and I scowl at him.

"Good day, _Mr. _Abernathy." I spin on my heel and stalk off angrily, irritated that he is so easily able to crawl beneath my skin like a chigger. After a brief stop in mates' mess for breakfast, (hardtack with molasses and weak coffee) I mill about on deck, biding my time until Mellark's watch ends and I can "cross paths" with him.

Five bells later, I am leaning against a barrel, the noonday sun roasting my cheeks and nose when Mellark rounds the corner of the captain's cabin. He flexes his fingers as he approaches me, but he does not see me at first. When his blue eyes lock on mine a flurry of nerves floods my stomach, spreading to my limbs. My legs are suddenly rubber and my mind a blank slate. I cannot get my mouth to form words as he acknowledges me with a subtle nod of his head and a tight smile.

He is nearly past me when I coax my legs to support me and manage to regain my speech.

"Mr. Mellark!"

He glances back, regarding me carefully with that mesmerizing gaze of his. Walking towards him, I flash him my most brilliant smile.

"Would you like me to read to you this morning? I know that you have finished your watch and I have not had the privilege to share any of my books with you yet and many of your crew mates have enjoyed hearing the stories and I just thought…" I do not realize that I am rambling, my speech tumbling from my lips at a frantic pace until Mellark's gentle laugh stops me.

"I would very much like to hear you read, Miss Everdeen. If you'd allow me to get something to eat first, I will meet you back here at the next bell." He suddenly leans forward, scrutinizing me, and I grow hot under his stare. "The sun is doing quite a number on your pretty face, miss. Perhaps we should find a place to sit where you should not be so exposed to it."

"Thank you for your concern, Mr. Mellark. I can retrieve my bonnet. It shall provide some shade as we read."

"All right, then, miss. One bell," he repeats.

I practically fly to my cabin, throwing open the door and quickly grabbing my books, spreading them across the surface of the chest. My digits dance along the spines, ultimately selecting _Pilgrim's Progress_. It is not a favorite of mine, but I have not yet read this to any of the other men.

It is harder than it should be to fasten my bonnet. My hands are clumsy, fumbling with the ribbons, and my fingers are like lead. Finally satisfied with the tie beneath my chin, I inhale slowly and try to tame my wildly beating heart.

Mellark is already waiting when I return to the deck (both of us arriving well ahead of the next bell). He greets me with a warm smile and my heart resumes its rapid staccato.

"I hope John Bunyan is acceptable." I hold up the book, and Mellark nods his approval. We settle side by side; I tuck my legs under me demurely, flouncing my full skirts to settle around me. Mellark sits cross-legged, his arms reaching behind him, palms braced against the deck. The distance between us is little more than a breath. The nearness causes my own breath to become shallower.

I begin to read and as I do, I am aware of Mellark's eyes shifting from side to side across the page. I wonder what he sees, if the words are merely a jumble of letters and symbols. It saddens me to think that there are so many illiterates in the world, and for most of them, like Mellark, it is of no fault of their own. It simply was not an option for them to learn the skill.

My body is acutely aware of the closeness between us: my pulse gallops through my veins like a runaway colt, my heart knocks anxiously against my ribs. With each measured breath, I inhale that heady masculine scent again and something more distinct. Some kind of mint, I think.

"…just as Christian came up to the Cross, his burden loosed from off his shoulders, fell from off his back, and began to tumble down the hill…"-I pray silently that Mellark does not notice the stumbles in my voice as I read, flustered as I am-"and so it continued to do till it came to the mouth of the…sep-sep-'

"Sepulchre."

He speaks the word so quietly that at first, I think that I must be hearing things.

Did he just presume to correct me?

"I know the word," I spit, agitated. "How do you know the word?"

I stare at him, incredulous, as his eyes dart away from me. A finger twists in the curls at the nape of his neck as he avoids my gaze. His silence only increases my confusion.

"I see. You cannot give me the courtesy of a reply?" I slam the book shut and scramble to my feet. Mellark springs up, grabbing my wrist, and the venomous look I must give him causes him to release it instantly. Clutching the book to my chest, I push past him, trying to avoid any contact with his sturdy frame that is so effectively blocking my escape.

"Miss Everdeen, wait!"

"Oh, now you speak!" I whirl around, skirts swishing about my knees. His chiseled jaw clenches, the sun catching the slight growth of beard that is there now, and I can detect a reddening in his tanned cheeks.

"Hear me out, miss, please?" The pity that clouds his beautiful eyes softens my resolve just enough to hold me in place, and he begins to speak.

"I can read, Miss Everdeen," he confesses quietly.

"Pardon?" His admission stuns me. How would a common sailor, a man of the lower class, know how to read?

"I can read, miss," he repeats lamely. He blinks several times in the bright sunshine, light reflecting off his golden lashes.

"How is that possible?"

"I told you before, Miss Everdeen, that I am good at keeping secrets." He sighs and tousles his blond curls, gazing out over the rolling sea. "This is something I must insist that I keep to myself for now. I hope you understand." He returns his eyes to mine, pleadingly, "Can we continue reading, miss? Please?"

I am torn by his request. The traitorous part of me is screaming to stay close to him, to remain in his presence as long as possible. The logical part of me wishes to beat the traitorous part into submission. This man cannot give me a simple explanation as to why he knows how to read? And he insists this explanation remain secret? Why should I continue showing him kindness in return when he insists on keeping secrets?

Those blue pools are my undoing. I make the mistake of looking into them and my resolve collapses like a house of cards.

_Foolish girl_, my conscience hisses in my ear.

"I will finish this page, Mr. Mellark. But that is all!" I add hastily.

He smiles at me appreciatively. "Thank you, Miss Everdeen." I exhale a deep breath, and we resume our positions. I complete the reading without incident, though I am more deliberate in my pronunciation now that I know Mellark can easily glance over and decode the words on the page for himself.

When I turn the page and reach a place in the text where it is appropriate to stop, Mellark reaches over and covers my hand with his. The touch is innocent, yet my reaction to it is anything but. Heat radiates from where his palm rests against the back of my hand and flames lick up the length of my arm, spreading warmth throughout my entire body. Our eyes meet, his blue on my grey, and neither of us speaks, the charge of the moment heavy in the muggy air.

"Thank you for understanding, Miss Everdeen. For not pressing me further about…" he trails off, withdrawing his hand. The spot continues to tingle in spite of the loss of contact. "I hope that in time, I can share more about myself with you."

"I might allow it, Mr. Mellark." I can tell by the slight curve of his pale lips that my response has surprised him. I have surprised myself, if I may be truthful.

We both rise to our feet; he offers his hand to assist me, and I would be remiss not to accept it, so much am I craving his touch again.

"Perhaps, Miss Everdeen, you will also reconsider my invitation to star-gaze, some night."

"We shall see, Mr. Mellark," I hedge. His eyes crinkle with laughter.

I am halfway to my cabin when he calls after me.

"Miss Everdeen, your hair," he starts. My fingers wander up to the nape of my neck, closing around the braid I wove earlier. My mother would pitch a fit if she saw my mahogany locks in such a state. Other than loose curls, girls of my class would be expected to wear it coiled in a bun or gathered with a ribbon. "It is very becoming in that fashion, miss."

And I am grateful for the distance between us now so that he cannot see the blush staining my cheeks.

It is only when I am back in my cabin, in my solitude, that I reflect on the previous half-hour of interaction with Mellark. Once am I alone with my thoughts, I am quick to scold myself for allowing Mellark to touch me.

I _wanted_ him to touch me, I realize shamefully. I draw in a deep, shaky breath and immediately grab for my journal, scribbling word after word about lust and sin until I am spent and feel purged of my wicked thoughts.

Later that afternoon I am loitering on deck, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, when I sense a change in the atmosphere. The whisper of a breeze that had caused me to brush my errant bangs off my forehead repeatedly ceased altogether. The air grows thick and oppressive, and when I draw a breath, my lungs gasp with the effort it takes.

The sea is lifeless. _The Mockinjay_ bobs, floats, but makes no progress.

The lack of movement infuriates Captain Snow. He paces the deck, muttering to himself and barking orders to Mr. Crane and Mr. Thread, whichever man is unfortunate enough to be in his presence at that moment. Both mates are ordered to man the jollyboats multiple times over the next several days, towing the ship in a futile search for wind.

Nothing.

The captain takes his frustration out on the crew. He drives them relentlessly, finding the most mundane tasks to occupy their watches, often inventing reasons to call for "all hands" and have every sailor engaged. The crew works dutifully, completing their chores obediently, but the glances they give the captain are murderous and the complaints they mutter grow louder each day.

Captain Snow pays little attention to me in light of the circumstances, and teatime is a forgotten occasion. As a result, I spend more time among the crew, and I sense them growing infinitely more restless, more enraged with each new set of commands.

The most eventful thing that happens to me in the midst of the chaos is the book that I find on my pillow upon returning to my cabin after supper one evening. By the light of my candle, I can read the title adorning the cover in elegant script: _Gulliver's Travels_ with several smaller lines underneath. I pick up the tome and open the cover, releasing a small sheaf of paper that flutters to the floor.

_You are not the only world traveler, Miss Everdeen. I thought you may enjoy a break from your usual reading. This is a favorite of mine. -M._

It is a welcome diversion, and I lose myself in the unusual journeys of Lemuel Gulliver. I do not (not even once) consider that Mr. Mellark should not have bestowed such a gift on me.

I do, however, consider the notion that the man has utterly enchanted me.

* * *

It begins with a needle.

Six days hence from when the sea first fell calm, I am reading to Brutus as he attempts to mend a hole in a pair of his trousers. The stocky sailor slumps over the pants, exhausted, as his fingers fumble with the needle and thread. He had spent the morning in the highest reaches of the yards, reapplying tar to the stays. Without a cloud in the heavy sky, the sun is brutal, and Brutus's red, chapped face is a testament to this. He reeks of tar and sweat, but his face had broken into such a relieved smile when I offered to keep him company that I could not deny him it.

Gulliver has just arrived in Lilliput, (I cannot resist adding the book to my repertoire; I know Mellark saw me reading to Chaff from it yesterday.) and Brutus listens attentively, his eyes constantly flickering from his mending to me. It is then that the needle snaps in two.

"Shit!" he swears, the broken pieces of metal falling to the deck without so much as a sound. His whiskey-hued eyes widen and he frowns. "Sorry, Miss Everdeen," he apologizes ruefully, letting out a lengthy sigh. The fatigue is etched on his ruddy face and my heart aches for him. He rustles about in the crude sewing kit at his feet and mumbles to himself, "…couldn't…another bloody needle…" He slowly begins to stand.

"What is wrong, Mr. Brutus?"

"I ain't got another needle. Need to go get one from the forecastle." He grimaces as he stretches his massive frame to its full length. My sympathy for the big man ebbs again.

"Would it help if I went to retrieve a new needle for you?" I suggest. Relief washes over his features.

"Miss Everdeen, I cannot tell you how much I would appreciate that kindness. My entire body feels like it's made of cement after the morning I had."

I nod. "Where will I find one?"

"I think I have another one in my chest. Top part, should be a canvas satchel with more mending things. Underneath my hammock, in the forecastle."

"How will I know which hammock is yours?"

"Should be at least a few off-watch men in there. They'll help point out my hammock to you, miss." I nod again and set off for the forecastle. As I approach the closed door, a strange sensation of déjà vu washes over me. Voices murmur within, and I find myself straining to listen.

"….getting impatient."

"How many names are there?"

"Six so far, but we can get the others."

"Gloss?"

"…no answer….yet to commit."

A loud pounding, much like a fist striking a table, precedes a clear pronouncement, "It's all or fuckin' nothing. You're either with us or against us. None of this halfway horseshit." A brief silence.

A different voice replies, "….tired of the girl…" I hold my breath and my pulse quickens when I discern that I am now the topic of discussion. "…always wandering around…always listening…right to Captain Snow."

"Relax." The loud voice again. "It ain't her fault she's caught up in this. We tried our damndest to keep outsiders off this ship, and it worked on the others."

"Yeah, but we can't let her get in the way of pulling this off."

I am frozen in place outside the forecastle door, angry at myself for my rudeness for eavesdropping (quite blatantly this time) but stunned by the snippets of speech that have filtered out to my ears. My errand remains, and in spite of how I suspect I will be received, I knock timidly against the wood. My rapping is met with fierce whispers and hisses, as well as the scraping of wood against the floor.

"Who's there?"

"It's me, Miss Everdeen."

More fierce hissing.

"Why are you here?"

"Mr. Brutus broke a needle. He is so tired, I thought I'd be kind and fetch it for him," I call, leaning close to the door. I jump back, startled, when the door swings open and I am met by Abernathy's steely glare.

"Doing your good deed for the day, sweetheart?" He looks me up and down, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, jumping with each word he speaks.

"One might see it that way, yes," I reply tightly. Of all the sailors, it had to be him that opened the door. "Will you allow me to come in to get Mr. Brutus's needle?" He leans against the doorjamb and glances over his shoulder briefly before sweeping his arm aside in an exaggerated bow. I ignore his sarcasm and tentatively cross the threshold into the dim, crowded space.

As with my cabin, there is no natural light save for what streams in from the open door. A lantern emits a small flame atop a chest on the opposite wall, and as I inch forward, my senses are assaulted by a malodorous mixture of sweat and body odor. Piles of dirty clothes are strewn everywhere, and I have to suppress a gasp by clapping my hand to my mouth when my eyes settle on the scandalous pictures (some that make Odair's tattoo appear downright prudish) tacked above several of the hammocks. A large chest dominates the center of the room, atop which sits a decrepit checkerboard and several sheets of paper.

My eyes sweep to the starboard wall, where rows of hammocks are slung. Three appear weighed down with the bulk of bodies. A jumble of arms and legs suggest sleeping sailors, but I suspect they are feigning rest. I know I heard multiple voices.

"You fixing to move in, sweetheart, or you gonna get what you came for?" Abernathy raises an eyebrow at me. He gestures with his head to the corner. I see the chest of which Mr. Brutus spoke beneath an empty hammock. He watches me guardedly as I edge across the floor. I keep my eyes on Abernathy as I flip the clasp upward and throw back the lid of the trunk. My heart nearly stops at the first thing I see.

A pistol.

My mouth goes dry and my heart resumes its beating, racing madly with fear. The implications that accompany the discovery of this weapon are weighty. Captain Snow bragged to me that the only weapons aboard his ship (lest my infamous dirk) were safely locked within his safe. If there is one pistol here, there could very well be eight pistols here. Or a multitude of other weapons. A wave of nausea swells in the pit of my stomach.

I no longer feel safe on this ship. This single pistol can mean nothing but trouble.

I know I must act quickly to locate the needle, and I cannot I let on that I have seen the pistol. Shifting my gaze to the left of the gun, I see the canvas satchel of which Mr. Brutus spoke, and I lift the small pouch, making a big production out of locating it. Inside I find a small wedge of cork into which several needles are thrust. I pluck one quickly and close the trunk, pulse pounding in my ears. I throw Abernathy a triumphant smile and move swiftly towards the door. But in doing so, my skirt catches on a haphazard heap of torn hammocks and sails, and I crash into the large trunk. It breaks my fall, but the checkerboard scatters on the floor, and my hand (fortunately not the one clutching the needle) lands on one of the sheets of paper. Upon withdrawing it, I reel once more.

Two circles, one within the other.

Scrawls between the lines.

A round robin.

I attempt to maintain my composure as best as I can, smiling politely at Abernathy as I right the trunk. He scowls at me as I retreat towards the door, leaving the checkerboard where it fell. (I reason it would be more suspicious if I clean the mess.)

"Thank you." I sputter. Abernathy lurches forward and slams the door in my face.

Shaken, I return to Brutus. I hand him the needle, and he thanks me profusely. He regards me carefully, and I sense he notices a change in my demeanor, but he says nothing. He resumes his mending and I resume reading to him. When I reach the conclusion of the chapter, I close the book and bid Brutus good day. He thanks me once more, and I rush to the sanctity of my cabin, never happier to see its cramped confines.

I throw myself down onto the bed and lay motionless, my head spinning. Every time I close my eyes, the image of that pistol burns into my retinas.

Sitting up, I rub my temples with the pads of my fingers and take a few deep breaths while I consider the rest of what I saw in the forecastle. The round robin presents an imminent dilemma. Captain Snow was explicit in his warning to me that I was to alert him immediately if I ever saw such a thing on the ship. Did he not stress the danger that it presented to the ship? To him? To me?

But then there is the crew. I still earn heated whispers and guarded glances, but in recent days, my favor has grown exponentially among many of them. I risk destroying any tenuous bonds I have forged with these men if I run directly to the captain.

I know the round robin indicates some sort of pact; Captain Snow told me as much. Its actual purpose remains a mystery to me.

I am bright girl, or so I had been told frequently at Panem. I should be able to deduce what all that has transpired today means.

My mind wanders back to my conversation with Cinna when he first gave me the dirk and then quickly darts to our tea together when he insisted I keep the knife, stating I was in greater danger than I could imagine. The story of the tragic Mr. Boggs springs to the forefront, the word 'revenge' taunting me over and over again.

It comes into focus slowly, like a telescope honing in on its target.

A rebellion. This crew is planning a mutiny.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's**** Note-**_I think it goes without saying that I owe a tremendous amount of thanks to all the readers of this story who supported me both through lovely PMs and via the tumblr posts of my beloved Jeeno, RynMar and RainyDaysAnyway. I also must thank all those who reviewed and showed love for Chapter 6; I apologize that I was not able to individually respond to reviews this go-round. I will resume that with this chapter.

As for the accusation that was leveled last Friday (and for those of you who do not know, an anonymous reviewer posted review after review accusing me of plagiarizing the Avi novel that I have repeatedly said I have used for this story...and when I deleted the offensive reviews, this person proceeded to anon ask half my reviewers and my lovely above three sounding boards on their tumblrs leveling the same accusation), I stand by this story. It is as much a fanfiction for the Avi book as it is for The Hunger Games. I have never once hidden that I have used his plot and melded the HG characters where possible. The upper-class girl, the cruel captain, the mutiny...yes, they are in the original book, but what a perfect parallel to THG they made. What I am doing is no different than an author who is writing a canon THG fic and following Suzanne Collins's plot scene by scene. However, there are significant differences between this story and the book, and I have certainly added elements that allows this story to be an Everlark romance at its core. The eventual M rating is why I have been reluctant to name the book in any of my author's notes. I do not want it showing up in searches for that book; young children DO read it. When the story concludes I will gladly share with curious readers what was added to the original Avi plot.

There are several canon THG lines you'll begin to recognize, and there is but ONE line lifted directly from CD, and I will let you know the chapter in which it arrives.

I must also thank mackie80 and single her out. If an avid fan of the Avi book can reach out and praise what this story is doing, I feel completely at ease. But the word plagiarism is a nasty one, and one that does not feel good when it is leveled at you. I know the difference, I _teach_ the difference to my kids.

So as always, I DO NOT OWN The Hunger Games or Charlotte. And as always, please let me know what you think by leaving a review.

* * *

"A mutiny," I whisper the word aloud. It sounds ugly, a harbinger of the horror it has the capacity to unleash. It sends tremors quaking through my limbs. The voices I heard in the forecastle when I retrieved Brutus's needle had spoken of pulling something off. Between that and the round robin, I am absolutely certain I am correct.

I am acquainted with accounts of the _HMS Bounty_ and the incredible story of Captain Bligh, who had been cast off his own ship at the hands of his crew. The men, who accused the captain of repeated humiliations and floggings, set him adrift in the South Pacific, taking the ship without bloodshed.

But I cannot expect this crew to be so humane. Not if the story about Boggs has any truth behind it. Captain Snow is undoubtedly in grave danger.

I squinch my eyes shut and try to recall how many signatures I saw on the sheet of paper. But I had not gotten a good enough look at it, and I cannot say how many men have signed their names to this pact. I can assume, however, that the men in the forecastle at that moment are all part of the conspiracy. So at a minimum, it is four. I wonder if Mellark knows of it. And if he does, is he part of it? I cannot fathom such a sweet and kind man as he participating in any such kind of violence.

Abernathy had opened the door to me, so it is his watch that was off-duty. Brutus was on deck where I had left him when I scampered off to run his errand. That is two men. Odair and Marvel are the other two sailors in that watch.

I wrinkle my nose in confusion when I remember there were three hammocks bearing the bulk of bodies. No doubt Odair and Marvel were in two of them. So who was in the third hammock? Why had I counted a total of _five_ men off-watch? Had someone risked the wrath of the captain by leaving his post to plot with the others? Not likely. Who, then, was the fifth man?

My blood curdles in my veins as a revelation hits me: the thing I saw suspended from the _Mockingjay_ while I waited on the dock in Liverpool. The thing I now most certainly deduce was human. A man. How did I not come to the conclusion sooner?

A stowaway.

It cannot be coincidence that of all the ships moored on the docks that day, a stowaway chose _The Mockingjay_ by chance. There must have been a few dozen ships anchored in Liverpool on that morning. No, this ship was boarded intentionally. So who would want to board this ship in secrecy? I wrack my brain for a reasonable explanation.

Who stands to gain the most from overthrowing Captain Snow?

Who would want revenge that badly?

There can be only one answer: Mr. Boggs.

It is the only logical assumption. It chills my blood, like ice water flowing through my veins. Cinna spoke of revenge. What nefarious things do these men have planned?

I pace the cramped cabin feverishly, my heart thumping. What am I to do?

I can hear my father's voice, clear and precise, resonating in my ear, intoning about honor and duty and allegiance. Allegiance that I owe to Captain Snow. To consider my loyalty to anyone else would be disgraceful, a betrayal of the values my parents and my teachers have instilled in me. My newfound fondness towards the sailors cannot suppress years of morality and manners.

Still, I cannot explain the sick feeling in the pit of my belly that I am doing something wrong.

Suppressing my suspicions, I say a quick prayer to the good Lord to give me strength and start out for Captain Snow's quarters. As I reach the deck and begin to cross in the direction of the quarterdeck, my eyes land on Marvel. He is sitting upon a barrel near the mainmast.

He narrows his eyes at me, two green slits regarding me carefully, and the venom behind the glare holds me in place. The corners of his lips curve upward in a cruel smirk, and still holding my gaze, he shakes his head slowly and deliberately.

Marvel had to have been one of the men in the forecastle, as he is in Abernathy's watch. But now he is here on deck. Was he sent to watch for me in the probability that I run directly to the captain? Was he lying in wait, spying? I remind myself that I cannot be certain the sailors know of my discoveries, but if they suspect I saw Brutus's pistol or the round robin, I can assume they know where my loyalties lie.

As if he can read my mind, Marvel cocks his finger and thumb and pantomimes firing at me.

He knows.

He knows I saw the pistol. My heart begins to pound.

We stare at each other for a few breathless seconds before he leaps off the barrel and disappears into the forecastle. I take a few deep breaths to try to calm my pulse. But as I release the rail and walk slowly toward the quarterdeck, I notice Odair standing atop it. He holds a rope, which his nimble fingers are working into a knot, but he, too, appears to be watching me. His usually-friendly face is slack, serious, and when I contort my lips into a hesitant smile, his mouth does not move in reply.

My palms begin to sweat, and I worry my lower lip between my teeth as I continue towards Captain Snow's cabin. I mount the steps to the quarterdeck and round the corner, Cato glowers at me from his post at the wheel.

"Going somewhere, Miss Everdeen?" he sneers. "It's not tea time yet." I lift my chin and ignore him, drawing a deep breath and knocking upon Captain's Snow's door.

"Come in!"

I throw open the door. Captain Snow and Mr. Crane stand in the center of the cabin, each holding one edge of a large map.

"Miss Everdeen, may I help you?" I nod, and my mouth opens to speak, but I am unable to formulate a coherent thought. All that escapes my lips is a pathetic puff of air. Captain Snow gives me a quizzical look.

"Is something the matter, Miss Everdeen?" he hedges, releasing his hold on the map and taking several steps in my direction. Mr. Crane rolls up the parchment and sets it down, directing his attention to me as well. I swallow, my arid mouth searching for moisture to assist my frozen vocal cords. Two more swallows.

"Miss?" Captain Snow issues me a polite smile, but impatience colors his voice.

"Please, sir," I whisper hoarsely. "I must speak with you." I cut my eyes to Mr. Crane. "In private, sir." The captain's icy eyes shift between his first mate and me.

"Is this of some kind of importance, Miss Everdeen?" His question surprises me.

"I would not be interrupting you if it was not, sir." My voice gains strength, but my chest heaves with the shallow breaths that I am taking every few seconds.

"Very well, then," he agrees. "Mr. Crane, shut the door."

Mr. Crane obliges, and he pauses just in front of the closed door, waiting his next command. I anticipate the captain dismissing him. I am wrong.

"Miss Everdeen, do you have any objections to Mr. Crane remaining?"

I rock uneasily on my feet, considering the question. Do I have any objections? Mr. Crane is the first mate; ship complement suggests he is next-in-command and thus, should have some degree of trust in the captain and vice versa. I recall Mr. Crane telling Miss Trinket that this is his first voyage with Captain Snow. Thus, it is entirely plausible that he is not aware of the discontent among this crew. He probably needs to hear what I have to say as well.

"I guess not, sir," I shrug.

"Very well, Miss Everdeen. Mr. Crane, you may stay." He retreats to his chair and settles in the seat, folding his hands in his lap and motioning for me to approach. Timidly, I step forward, Mr. Crane following behind me.

"Now then, miss, whatever is plaguing you? You are pale as a sheet."

"I was on deck earlier, reading to Mr. Brutus, sir." My voice quivers, and I pause to gulp a breath and regain my composure. The captain and Mr. Crane are watching me intently, both men wearing twin expressions of indifference. How sure am I that those faces will change instantly in several scant moments.

"He broke his needle," I continue. "He was so tired from tarring the stays, and I wanted to do him the kindness of letting him rest so I offered to fetch him a new needle."

"A needle?" Mr. Crane interjects, a perfectly-groomed eyebrow arching upward. Captain Snow issues him a look of reprimand, but he too looks unimpressed with the urgency of my story.

"From where did you fetch this needle, Miss Everdeen?" the captain coaxes. I fidget, wringing my clammy hands in front of my waist.

"The forecastle," I reply meekly. At this, both men exchange what I perceive to be an amused look.

"The forecastle is not truly a place for a lady such as you. I should think your father and mother would be disappointed if they knew you were frequenting such an unscrupulous area. Tell me, Miss Everdeen, do you visit the forecastle often?"

"No, sir." I shake my head vehemently. "This, um, this was my first time." A little white lie, but they do not need to know I was there once before in search of Mellark. I flush a bit at the memory.

"Did you go inside? Or were you held at the door?"

"Mr. Abernathy permitted me to enter and search Mr. Brutus's trunk for the needle."

"And did you find a needle, Miss Everdeen?"

"Yes, sir." I chew my lip anxiously. "And something else." The captain leans forward in his seat, his white brows creasing.

"You're starting to irritate me a little with your evasiveness, Miss Everdeen. Can we not get down to brass tacks? What else did you find?" When I hesitate, his cool blue eyes flicker with annoyance and I swallow nervously.

"A pistol," I whisper. As I suspected, their faces transform instantly.

Mr. Crane's dark eyes flash with alarm, his porcelain skin becomes impossibly paler.

The captain's complexion, by contrast, flushes red, his eyes flickering. I am struck by the immediate notion that what he does _not_ appear to be is surprised.

On the contrary, he looks excited.

The stark contrast in their reactions further unnerves me.

"Where was this pistol, Miss Everdeen?"

I inhale sharply. I do not wish to cause trouble for Mr. Brutus; the hulking man has grown on me, and I now perceive him more as a gentle giant. I cannot expect him to be so kind to me if I tell on him. But at the same time, I cannot see how I shall be able to avoid a follow-up query if I simply say, "in a chest."

And so I stammer, "Mr. Brutus's chest."

"Ah, Mr. Brutus's chest," the captain echoes, drumming his finger against his leg, glancing over at Mr. Crane again. "Just one pistol, miss?"

I nod. "Just one."

"Nothing else of interest in the forecastle, then?"

My hesitation is brief, but the captain seizes on it. "Come then, Miss Everdeen. Enough with this dilly-dallying. There is more, is there not? I can tell by your nervous tongue that you wish to tell me something else."

"Yes, sir, there is more." I sigh. Even as I prepare to speak of the round robin, I have second thoughts. I could very well leave things alone, having only confessed enough information to get Brutus into trouble with the captain. I shudder as Mr. Thread's earlier explanation of keel-hauling vaults itself into my mind because I truly do not wish to cause the big man harm. Perhaps there is a valid reason as to why the sailor has the weapon.

I am remiss to admit that either way, this is going to bring harm to someone.

"Miss Everdeen, you are trying my patience." The captain's words are harsh, but his tone is measured. "What else did you find?"

"There was…there was…" My brain cannot force my mouth to utter the words, and I stutter hopelessly until I suck in one big breath and exhale, "a round robin. At least, I think it was."

"A round robin!" The captain gasps (a bit too over-dramatically, I note) and rises from his chair so swiftly that the piece of furniture rocks off its front legs with the force. Mr. Crane's jaw works rapidly, and he does not fully meet the captain's fevered gaze. Captain Snow stops before me; those cold eyes lock on mine. I shrink under his imposing figure. "Are you certain?" he hisses. "This is not a game, no child's play, Miss Everdeen. This is a matter of life and death, and I will not waste my time with your imaginary-"

"I am absolutely certain!" I interrupt emphatically, asserting myself. "It was exactly as you described it to me, sir. Two circles, and there were names scrawled between them."

"How many names?"

"I do not recall, sir. I did not get a very good look at it, and I did not want to make it obvious to the men that I had seen it." Captain Snow's eyes glitter dangerously, and a slow smile spreads across his face.

"Clever girl," he appraises. I find it difficult to bask in the glow of such a compliment, given the circumstances. He resumes pacing, his face betraying no emotion, while he grumbles incoherently to himself. I steal a glance at Mr. Crane, who strokes the tip of his beard absently while avoiding my eyes. He looks infinitely more agitated than Captain Snow does.

"Miss Everdeen, if you had to register a guess, how many names do you think might have been on that paper?" Captain Snow has calmed considerably and he speaks evenly, priming me as my teachers at Panem often did.

"I cannot be certain, sir. Perhaps six or seven?"

"Six or seven?" he crows. "Why is it not nine?" Bitter laughter. More pacing. The tension in the cabin is tremendous; it feels as if we are immersed in the barrel of a powder keg, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

"Mr. Crane?" the captain finally announces.

"Sir."

"Call all hands." Mr. Crane looks uneasy, and he cuts his obsidian eyes towards me.

"Are you sure, sir?"

"Do you presume to question me, Mr. Crane?"

"No, sir. All hands, yes."

A satisfied smirk crosses the captain's face, and he walks briskly to the portrait of his granddaughter. Grabbing the frame and pulling the portrait from the wall, he turns over the frame and plucks something from the back. I watch, motionless, as he fits a small key into the safe and flings open the iron door. He withdraws two pistols and tucks them into his belt on either side, arranging his jacket so they are hidden from plain sight. Two more pistols are handed over to Mr. Crane, who mimics the captain's actions to conceal them. Finally, Captain Snow grabs three muskets, thrusting two upon the first mate, and gripping one in his own clenched fist. I watch the peachy flesh of his knuckles become white, so tight is his grasp on the weapon.

"Captain Snow, sir…" I intend to speak a meager defense of the crew, but the murderous look in the man's eyes causes my words to die on my lips.

"You may have saved our lives, Miss Everdeen."

"What is happening, sir?" I play the fool, widening my grey eyes with exaggerated innocence.

"My crew seems to be unhappy with me, Miss Everdeen. It appears a rebellion is afoot." He quirks a bushy, white eyebrow at Mr. Crane, who waits patiently, muskets in each hand, near the cabin door. "Where there are sparks, there will soon be flames." He smiles cruelly. "It is time to douse the sparks of this mutiny before its fire can consume us all." He grabs my arm, his free hand gripping me surprisingly hard just below my elbow. I choke back a yelp of pain. The captain and Mr. Crane exchange a nod, and Mr. Crane shifts one musket under his armpit, freeing one hand to swing open the door.

Captain Snow marches out onto the quarterdeck, pulling me roughly alongside of him, his fingers digging into my arm. He is shockingly strong for an older man. Mr. Crane stays two paces behind us. Fear surges through my veins; my heart thumps erratically as the captain shoves me roughly aside. My skin pulses with sharp biting stabs where his fingers had clawed into me. Clasping the bell clapper, he tugs violently. Once. Twice.

"What are you waiting for?" he screams at Mr. Crane, snatching the second musket from the first mate.

"All hands! All hands!" Mr. Crane calls, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Captain Snow jerks the clapper wildly again. The ringing is garbled to my ears, so loud is the blood rushing to them.

The toll of the bell, the cries for the crew go unanswered. I glance around. Behind us, the wheel is unmanned. Above us, the sails hang limply, still beset by the stagnant air and absent wind; below us, the deck is deserted. An eerie silence is punctuated by the creaking of the planks beneath us as the captain strides angrily to the stairs.

"All hands! All hands!" Mr. Crane tries again, but his voice is weak.

"Do I have to do everything myself?" the captain roars, yanking on the clapper a third time. "All hands! All hands!" He releases the bell and it reverberates several times from the sheer force. Then he begins to pace.

Captain Snow is like a caged animal, prowling back and forth across the quarterdeck, his eyes narrow slits. The feral look in them increases my terror tenfold.

I fear I have made a grave mistake by informing on the crew.

This will not end well.

Mr. Thread is the first to appear, his expression a mask of disbelief as he regards us.

"Mr. Thread!" the captain cries. "I was beginning to think perhaps only I could hear the ringing of this bell. What say you?"

"Sir?" Mr. Thread stammers, anxiety etched on his rough features. But he does not get any further. The air fills with wild yells, raucous shouts and several colorful words that were foreign to me until I boarded this ship. Within seconds, the crew explodes onto the deck, each brandishing some type of weapon. Pistols. Swords. Knives, though of a much larger variety than my infamous dirk.

Cinna, however, is unarmed.

I cannot say that all the men are surprised to see us on the quarterdeck. The expressions upon their faces range from anger to fury, but when they begin to flicker their eyes in my direction, their countenances change to disgust.

I scan the disheveled line for Mellark, who shakes his head sadly. The pistol in his left hand catches the sun, winking dully at me. My cheeks burn, my stomach knotting painfully as I realize the profound disappointment with which he regards me. The flush yields to shame, and I slide my eyes away before humiliation can undo me.

Captain Snow sets one musket against the rail and descends the steps to the deck purposefully. He wields the other musket before him, keeping the crew at bay as he approaches them.

"Mr. Snow!" An unfamiliar voice bellows from the congregated men. I look up and down the line once more. A quick calculation reveals there are _ten_ men assembled on deck.

Between Abernathy and Brutus stands a man just a shade shorter than both, barrel-chested and muscular, the dark shadow of a beard shading his jaw. Thick, black locks cascade to his shoulders, a long jagged scar cutting a path along his left cheekbone. I think he might have been handsome at one time, if he was not so haggard-looking. My eyes travel down to notice one sleeve of his tattered jacket hangs flaccid, clearly indicating there is nothing inside it.

This man has but one arm.

"Mr. Boggs!" The captain bows mockingly then quickly resumes his stance, musket aimed directly at the mangled sailor. "Welcome back." His voice is thick with sarcasm. "You just could not stay away from my ship, could you?"

"You are not fit to captain _this_ ship, Mr. Snow." Boggs speaks with a peculiar calmness. The captain barks a sharp, harsh laugh.

"Forgive me, Mr. Boggs. I have a license that says otherwise. I am a bit disappointed that it has taken you this long to show yourself!"

"_Mr_. Snow-" He places deliberate emphasis on the mister, addressing the captain not by his title "-we have a round robin here that supports our claim that you are unfit to captain this ship." He grabs a paper from the pocket of his trousers (still managing to clutch his weapon, a large sword, with the same hand. I must admire his dexterity.) and he shakes the paper violently to unfold it. I see the concentric circles for the third time, the sheet fluttering slightly in the stagnant air. Heads nod and rumbles of agreement rise from the men around him.

"Mr. Snow, I swore to you that I would have my revenge on you," Boggs continues, taking a step forward, tossing his shaggy black mane with the movement. "But it turns out this entire crew has a lot of problems with you and we decided to stand together in our plot of vengeance!" There are no loud shouts this time, but most of the men nod in silent agreement.

"An empty threat from a soulless bastard," Captain Snow retorts acidly. I have never heard a gentleman swear before. (It will not be the last time.) "I assumed, Mr. Boggs, that you would not have the guts to avenge yourself. After all, you were much more proficient at shirking duty and this plot of yours must have taken quite the effort. I wish I could say I am impressed."

"I could care less what you think, Mr. Snow," Boggs spits raggedly, waving the paper. "This document is proof that my peers stand with me in the denouncement of the heinous crimes you have committed. You, Mr. Snow, have abused your position and no crew should have to answer to a man of your amoral character."

"Impressive rhetoric." The captain mock applauds the one-armed man, tapping his palm against the barrel of the musket. "But pretty words and a sheet of paper will get you nowhere, you mongrel. Pray, tell me, to whom do you appeal? There is no judge, no jury here, save for me. Or have you forgotten that as captain of this ship, the final verdict lies with me?"

"Perhaps I am not making myself clear. We seek justice, Mr. Snow."

"It is laughable that you speak of justice when you clearly do not know the meaning of the word. I was within my rights when I took that arm of yours, Mr. Boggs. Justice was rightfully mine when you dragged me before the admiralty courts and tried to slander my good name and reputation."

"Your name ain't worth shit," Abernathy slurs from his place in line. The captain wheels and aims his musket at him.

"Why am I not surprised that you could not hold your tongue, Mr. Abernathy? Or perhaps I should express some awe that you held it as long as you did!"

"Just because you've got yourself a fancy title doesn't give you the right to treat human beings like fuckin' animals."

"You are animals!" the captain snarls, spittle flying from his mouth. "You are nothing but ruffians. Scoundrels. You vile dogs are no better than the barnacles sucking at the keel of _my_ ship!"

"This paper gives us our rights, Mr. Snow. Our right to see you on trial before a jury of your peers, to answer for the injustices you have thrust upon us."

"You are not my peers," he hisses, raising the musket to his shoulder. "You are beneath me. You are _despicable_. Each and every one of you." He spins wildly and points at me with the musket. I gasp and jump back, startled, though I realize he is not aiming the weapon at me so much as gesturing at me with it. "I am disgusted that you could behave in front of our guest in such a manner." My breath catches and I feel the crew's accusing glares upon me.

"She deserves to know the monster you really are," Boggs scorns. "It's not her fault you have used her to spy on us, to track our every move. She's too innocent and naïve to see you for what you really are."

"And what would I be, Mr. Boggs?"

"You're the Devil."

"Then I shall see you in Hell," the captain replies coolly.

I do not even register that the musket has been fired until the thunderous roar causes me to stagger where I stand. A silent scream escapes from my throat as I watch the musket ball strike Boggs directly in the center of his brawny chest. He bellows with pain and rage, his sword clattering noisily to the deck, as his body keens backward. He hits the deck with a nauseating thud. My horror is further compounded when a foamy sea of red begins pulsing from his open mouth. His chest rises and falls irregularly with the gushes of blood pumping out from the point of impact the musket ball created. He thrashes about for several moments but eventually his movements slow.

I find my voice and this time my scream pierces the air audibly, my hand barely covering my trembling mouth before I crumble to my knees, my legs unable to support my quivering body. Next to me, Mr. Crane's breathing is shallow, and I notice his fingers are shaking where they cling to his musket. His face is ashen, and he appears as horrified as I.

Captain Snow casts aside the spent musket, a dull thud resonating from where the weapon falls. He grabs the second musket, raises it and aims it again.

"You still think I am unfit to captain this ship? Come, come, who wants to be the next to slander me?"

Not a single man moves. Not even an inch. No one makes a sound.

Except for the dying Boggs. His moans have yielded to strangled gasps, his chest expanding imperceptibly with each wet breath he attempts to take. Pink frothy dots coat his upper lip, and his once-white shirt is now completely saturated with his life's blood.

I sense a flicker of movement to my right. Glancing up, I see Cinna, his left foot poised to take a step.

But Captain Snow is too quick. He wheels the musket in Cinna's direction, rage contorting his face.

"Let the dog's carcass lay there, Mr. Cinna. Do not provoke me into firing again!"

All the men but Cinna shrink back several paces. The black man stares straight ahead, his countenance stoic, his tawny eyes unblinking.

"Drop your weapons. Every last one of them. Or I'll fire!"

The knives and swords tumble to the deck in a cacophony of clatters. The pistols land with muted thumps. One of the men, I think it is Cato, mutters darkly to himself.

"What was that, Mr. Cato?" The musket points to the burly blond man. He twitches but says nothing. "That is what I thought. Mr. Crane, gather those weapons!"

Mr. Crane submissively lowers his musket to the ground and slowly eases his way to the space between the captain and crew where the abandoned weapons lie. His eyes remain on Captain Snow.

I wonder what he thinks of the captain now.

"Bring me their round robin too!"

Hesitantly, Mr. Crane advances upon Boggs's body, which has ceased to draw any breath into it. Mr. Crane gingerly reaches over him to grab the paper where it landed after Boggs fell. Blood is everywhere and it has reached the paper, staining it red with several ugly splotches.

I remain on my knees, nausea threatening to spill my stomach's contents at any given moment. My heart clenches painfully. I have just seen a man die. Mr. Boggs is dead.

No one moves for several more minutes, but the first to do so is Cinna. He raises his hands above his head, affirming that he is unarmed, fixing his eyes on the captain, and he starts for the lifeless body of Boggs.

"Do not move, Mr. Cinna!" the captain orders. Cinna continues his slow pace, placing one foot ahead of the other in measured, metered steps, never breaking eye contact with Captain Snow.

"Let him be, Mr. Cinna! He is not of any concern to you. As far as this ship's log is concerned, he is not even here."

"Be that as it may," Cinna replies calmly, his voice like a balm soothing the madness, "he was as human as you or I. He deserves our kindness in his last moments."

"He deserves nothing," the captain spits, raising his musket and training it on Cinna once more. Cinna keeps walking. He reaches the fallen man, eyes all the while locked on Captain Snow, and he kneels on the deck beside Boggs. Blood soaks into his trousers, but Cinna is unfazed. He gently takes the man's wrist in his own hands, probing two fingers over the skin before letting the arm drop limply back to the deck. He shakes his head, confirming what we all already knew and lowers his chin and carefully makes the sign of the cross over the body.

"God, rest 'is soul," Odair murmurs.

"Sinners like Mr. Boggs do not have souls, Mr. Odair," the captain retorts coldly. He pauses.

"Get him over."

His words perplex me. None of the sailors move.

"Get him over!" the captain repeats emphatically.

Still nothing. The captain's chest puffs with an exaggerated breath, which he exhales audibly.

"Mr. Cinna, get that dog's carcass over. Now."

"Begging your pardon, sir." That calm, soothing voice again. "As with all sailors who die at sea, Mr. Boggs should be permitted a proper Christian burial." I wrinkle my nose and try to contain my disgust. Cinna cannot mean a Christian burial once we are ashore, can he? Will we really sail with a dead body for the remainder of the voyage? I do not know what crew's do with the bodies of sailors who die at sea. I had simply never considered that it happens.

"Captain Snow, sir?" Mr. Crane's voice is timid, meek. "Would it not be possible, sir, for Mr. Cinna to speak a few kind words in eulogy before-"

The captain gives Mr. Crane a long, withering stare, his eyes glittering viciously.

"Did I address you, Mr. Crane?"

"No, sir," the first mate whispers and shifts uncomfortably.

"Then shut your mouth. And you can have the honor of getting that body over to Mr. Cinna." When Mr. Crane hesitates, the captain's lips press into a thin, white line.

"Now!" he rages. Mr. Crane's shoulders slump in defeat, and he meekly walks to the dead body. He looks over at Cinna and the two men exchange the briefest of glances. Mr. Crane takes hold of the corpse by its remaining arm and begins to drag it towards the port side rail. A river of red marks its trail. Mr. Crane grunts audibly with the effort.

"Mr. Cinna, the gate."

For the first time that I have seen, Cinna's beautiful golden eyes darken to a menacing, fiery amber. He glowers at the captain and shakes his head deliberately. The men stare at each other, the air between them charged, and I hold my breath in anticipation.

The captain swears under his breath, exasperated, and marches past me, reaching the port rail in three quick strides, where he throws open the gate. It swings perilously over the boundless sea below us. It is a terrifying drop into the ocean; it has not registered to me how high up we are on deck.

"Get it over, Mr. Crane," he barks. Mr. Crane positions himself to hover over the corpse, preparing to roll it on its side.

"Sir," he murmurs quietly, but nothing more is spoken and his mouth closes when he perceives the lethal look in the captain's eyes.

Captain Snow spits on Boggs' body and turns away as Mr. Crane pushes the body into the churning sea. A soft splash and Boggs is no more. I have to choke back the bile that I taste, a foul, bitter acid rising in my throat.

"You're a fuckin' coward, Snow!"

My head snaps to attention, blinking back the tears that have welled in my eyes. My vision swims, but I know it is Abernathy's voice that I am hearing.

"It is still Captain Snow, to you, Mr. Abernathy. To all of you! What happened today will remain on this ship, and we shall continue on as if this never came to pass.

"But let me say how utterly disgusted I am by every last one of you. Repulsed. If it had not been for this girl's bravery to seek me out and tell me of your atrocious plot, who knows what would have become of me? I owe her a debt of gratitude." Eight pairs of eyes bore into me, and my lips begin to tremble, tears finally spilling over and rolling down my flaming cheeks. I do not look up.

I do not want this vile man's accolades. Indeed, I wish I could turn back the hands of time and keep my discovery to myself.

It is a wicked thought, but right now I would much prefer that it be the captain's body sinking to the bottom of the sea.

"I told you we shoulda fuckin' just killed him in his sleep one night," Cato snarls.

The captain whirls about, crosses the deck furiously and slaps Cato across his face. His blond head snaps back with the force of the blow, but he falls silent instantly. The captain marches back to his place atop the quarterdeck.

"Now I am feeling generous, you curs. I cannot very well discipline all of you or I shall have no crew left to complete this voyage. So I will pardon you of your miserable, failed little rebellion and ask that just one of you come and take the punishment for the lot. You can choose. Your second-in-command, if you have one. Perhaps mouthy Mr. Cato would like to show us how much pain a man can take? Or maybe Mr. Abernathy would like to show us what real courage looks like?" Both men sneer at the captain but neither moves, and none of the other men speak either.

I draw my hand across my cheek to wipe away the last of my tears, and I make the mistake of sneaking a glance at Mellark. The look that he gives me shreds my heart to ribbons, so full of disdain it is. It is a pain to which I am unaccustomed, and it is so profound that I cannot even pause to question why it hurts so badly.

"Miss Everdeen, are you not listening to me?"

"What?" I stutter, caught in my plaintive thoughts.

"Since none of these pathetic beasts wishes to step forward and take the generous offer I extended to them, I shall give you the privilege of choosing."

"What?" I repeat, my blood stilling in my veins. I gaze at him dumbfounded. "Choosing what?"

"Choose someone, Miss Everdeen. To be reprimanded. Before I do."

My mouth is dry. I cannot utter a syllable. Fresh tears prick at my eyes.

"My offer is very fair, Miss Everdeen. One man steps forward and bears the penalty for all. A noble act, actually. Who shall you choose?" I shake my head violently.

"No," I whisper. "I cannot. I could not…" I swallow painfully. _Do not look at Mellark_. _Do not look at Mellark_.

I have seen a side of the captain today that I did not think possible for any human to possess. He is a vengeful, bitter, cruel man, and I fear if I show any inclination towards the handsome young sailor, it is Mellark who will bear the punishment.

_What kind of punishment_? I shudder.

"This is your last chance, Miss Everdeen." The captain taps his foot impatiently, the boot heel clicking on the wooden plank.

"Please, sir, this is not fair. I could not possibly…" My eyes sweep the line again, never landing on any one man, but none of them are looking at me. Some gaze at their own feet; Mellark, Odair and Gloss all have their eyes closed.

"Very well, then. If you cannot give me a name by the count of three, I will make the choice for you."

"Captain Snow, please!" I implore.

"One."

"I am begging you, sir!"

"Two!" In a panic, I glance at Mellark. His eyes remain closed.

"I cannot!" I cry, collapsing to the deck in a sobbing, trembling heap.

"I should have known you would be too soft," he scoffs, his voice rising over my wails. He paces the line of men, studying each one critically as Mr. Crane crosses to me and rubs my back soothingly.

"Shh, Miss Everdeen. It will be alright," he whispers to me.

"Please, don't do this," I gasp, looking directly at the captain. He smiles maliciously and opens his mouth, inevitably to state his choice.

But before he can make a sound, a voice utters two words:

"I volunteer."

* * *

_**Additional A/N: **I will do my best to continue to post regularly, since this story is essentially complete and just requires chapter by chapter edits, but as I near the end of my marking term, I have 50+ student essays that will begin to trickle in and report cards looming, so updates may slow in the coming weeks. My free time then will shift to beta duties, since I have a number of lovely authors who rely on me. Thank you in advance for understanding. _


	8. Chapter 8

**_Author's Note: _**Many, many thanks to all those who reviewed Chapter 7 and voiced your support of this story. I so enjoy reading your thoughts and theories. I am flattered by the favorites and follows as well.

I must say a special thank you to jw77 and streetlightloves, who both recommended my story at the start of their most recent chapters.

And as always, I could not do this without the hand-holding and advice of jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar. I do not own THG or the original Avi novel.

I am not on tumblr, I am remiss to say, but please do leave a review and reach out. I respond to every one.

* * *

"No," I whisper, quailing, my eyes locked on Cinna. He does not move; he continues to stare straight ahead solemnly.

But it was his voice that spoke.

"No," I moan again.

"Very well, Mr. Cinna," the captain sneers. "I applaud your courage and your stupidity." He glances over at the broken line of the crew. "How does it feel to know a lowly Negro has shown more guts than any of your pathetic hides?"

Cinna remains stoic, unmoving, but he shifts his eyes to me. His visage is blurry through my tears, but I think that he smiles at me. The gesture tugs at my heart and tightens the knot in my stomach.

"Let us get on with this, then," Captain Snow declares. "Mr. Cinna, come here."

"No," I babble. "No, no, no!" Mr. Crane places his hand on my forearm and encourages me to rise, guiding me into a standing position.

"Shh, miss."

"Not Cinna! What is he going to do to him?" I wail softly. Mr. Crane's brows knit and he shakes his head. My legs are rubber, and I cling to the first mate for stability.

"I cannot say, miss," Mr. Crane says quietly.

"Have you anything to say, Mr. Cinna?" the captain barks.

The cook does not speak. He keeps his eyes trained forward, his lips pressed together, hands clasped at his waist.

"Come, come, Mr. Cinna. If you are waiting for your comrades to say anything on your behalf, you shall be waiting until snow falls in Hell. They may pretend to favor you, but in reality, you matter nothing to them."

As if to punctuate the point, not a single sailor moves to speak. His crew mates silently edge backwards, save for Mellark, who sidles over to stand next to Cinna. But he too remains silent. Those beautiful blue eyes glare at the captain with animosity, with disgust.

"Mr. Mellark, your sycophantic loyalty is dually noted. Now get you back. Mr. Cinna, I said come forward." Cinna extends his hand to his right, squeezes Mellark's hand and shuffles forward a step.

"Last chance for final words," the captain taunts. Cinna slides his golden eyes in my direction and the utter sorrow in them breaks my heart anew. He clears his throat.

"I have been a sailor for twenty-three of my forty-two years on this Earth, Captain Snow. I have sailed many voyages and charted many courses under the authority of dozens of masters. There have been harsh ones. There have been gentle ones. There have been fair ones. There have been captains that managed to be all three." His voice falters slightly, and I see his throat bulge with the effort of swallowing.

"But you, sir, are by far the worst captain I have ever had the distinction of serving." A quick glance at Captain Snow finds him livid, a vein throbbing visibly in his neck.

"I do not regret our actions," Cinna continues, regaining his composure, his voice clear and cool. "I only regret that we did not rise sooner. Had we not been so meticulous and acted more urgently, poor Mr. Boggs might still be with us and you would be locked in that filthy brig right now."

"Are you done?" the captain leers.

"I forgive you as well, Miss Everdeen," Cinna calls, pressing his palms together and bowing his head in my direction. He immediately turns back to the captain. "I forgive the girl. You used her. Manipulated her. Played upon her sense of duty and loyalty to you, and you got what you wanted. I forgive my mates too. We all knew what awaited us on this ship when we signed on, the potential consequences for what we were planning. I am only sorry we failed."

"Bravo, Mr. Cinna. Such a pretty little speech. Mr. Crane, do be sure Mr. Cinna's confession is written down. It's always nice to have such damning words on the record when you are dealing with dangerous rebels! There shall be no question as to my justification in punishing him when this log is submitted upon our arrival in Philadelphia."

"Yes, sir."

I cannot help but notice that Mr. Crane's quavers every time he speaks and his hand trembles against my back where he continues to comfort me.

"I doubt anyone will give a second thought to the speech of a black man, but let it stand that Mr. Cinna has spoken his peace. Now he shall receive his due."

It is at this precise moment that I notice Mr. Thread several paces beyond the captain, holding something behind his back.

"Mr. Crane, string him up."

Mr. Crane releases me, but he does not move.

"Mr. Crane, I gave you an order," the captain snaps.

"Do you really think it necessary that he be strung up, sir?" Mr. Crane asks quietly. "I doubt very much that Mr. Cinna will-"

"I gave you an order, Mr. Crane. String him up!"

"Aye, aye, sir," he mumbles weakly. I watch, numb, as the first mate crosses to Cinna, who holds out his hands without protest and allows Mr. Crane to lead him up the steps to the quarterdeck rail. Cinna shrugs off his jacket, baring his chest, and squares his shoulders as he turns to face the railing. His naked back glistens with sweat, the muscles tensing.

Mr. Crane climbs onto the rail and begins to bind Cinna's wrists, levering him so his body rises steadily until only the tips of his toes are touching the deck.

It is then I see Mr. Thread and Captain Snow exchange the object that Mr. Thread was shielding from view. I gasp.

It is a whip.

Fear and guilt muddle through my veins, and I feel the queasiness threatening to crest in my stomach anew. On trembling legs, I quietly make a move to leave the deck.

"Miss Everdeen, where might you be going?" the captain snaps.

"Please, sir, I cannot bear to watch this."

"Get back to where you just stood. You are needed as witness," he commands. "For the log. Do you think any admiralty court would believe the word of any of these scum in the remote possibility my conduct is questioned?" He thumbs at the sailors, who glare back with tangible hatred piercing each pair of eyes. At least, I assume it is each pair. I still cannot bear to look at Mellark.

"I am going to be ill," I plead. My appeal falls on deaf ears; the captain ignores me.

"Fifty lashes, Mr. Crane."

Loud gasps escape the crew, and Mr. Crane himself looks aghast.

"Sir, do you not think that is extreme?"

"I gave you an order. Your impertinence is not appreciated, Mr. Crane! Do it now!" His eyes are molten, the irises barely showing a sliver of that icy blue.

"Aye, aye, sir," Mr. Crane whispers piteously. He shifts the whip in his hand, his fingers visibly shaking on the handle. He glances skyward, his lips move in silent prayer, and I, from my vantage closest to them, hear him barely croak out an apology to the motionless Cinna.

"What are you waiting for?" the captain shouts.

My stomach lurches with the first flick of the whip. The tail hisses through the air, and with a sickening crack, it makes contact with the flesh of Mr. Cinna's back. He groans as four red slashes materialize where the whip struck.

"No," I choke, my mouth a desert, the ship beginning to spin before my eyes.

"Again!" the captain growls. "Follow your orders, Mr. Crane. Stop stalling." The first mate sighs and snaps his wrist forward once more. Another agonizing moan follows another terrible smack. Four more red welts rise, creating a gruesome cross-hatch on the brown flesh.

"Again! We shall be here all day, Mr. Crane, if you cannot issue your lashes in a timelier manner!"

_Crack_! Cinna's body spasms under the third strike.

"No! Mr. Crane, please stop!"

I am shocked at the voice that gasps out the urgent plea.

The voice is mine.

The captain whirls about to face me, as much stunned by my outburst as I.

"It is not fair, sir. Please make him stop!"

The captain regards me deliberately, his face devoid of any emotion, until he laughs derisively.

"What is not fair, Miss Everdeen? Did Mr. Cinna not volunteer for this punishment?"

"You will kill him," I stammer, my heart seizing for poor Mr. Cinna.

"If he dies, Miss Everdeen, it will be a mere consequence of his horrible actions. You cannot tell me a girl with your education does not know about consequences. Because if you do not, miss, I would say your parents' money was wasted at that swank school you attended."

"He has been lashed three times. Can that not be sufficient punishment?"

"Sufficient," he snorts. "Mr. Cinna was sentenced to fifty lashes. You may not think so, but his punishment is more than fair. I am within my rights by the admiralty codes to simply fire my pistol at him and end it all with one shot.

"If I had known this would happen, I would have never told you." I clap my hand over my mouth. Did I really just utter those words? The captain wrinkles his nose in disgust at me.

"You ought to keep that pretty little mouth of yours shut, Miss Everdeen. Would you sass your father like that?"

The mere mention of my father spurs a renewed sense of sympathy for Mr. Cinna. My father would be appalled at the treatment of this poor man who is being made a scapegoat, pure and simple.

"Surely Mr. Cinna meant no harm. You are a righteous man, sir. A gentleman, like my father. Have some compassion, I implore you! He would!"

"No harm, Miss Everdeen? You are truly a foolish little girl if you believe that! The round robin should have enlightened you to the harm these dogs intended to inflict upon me! Upon you! These men could have murdered me, had their way with you, and you want to defend them? No, Miss Everdeen, you knew exactly the danger implied by that the pistol you spied in Mr. Brutus's trunk and the round robin."

I avoid the rueful glare that Mr. Brutus gives me, casting my eyes downward in shame.

"I am sorry," I offer lamely, to no one in particular, I realize. To everyone, perhaps.

"Mr. Crane, you have issued but three lashes. I would prefer this not take all day. There is work to be done." Mr. Crane exhales, a deep, mournful breath, and the whip spits a fourth time.

Cinna's body twists about in its suspended state, and from this angle, I can see the web of raised wounds spreading across his back. His eyes are closed and his breathing is labored.

With the fifth strike, Cinna emits a low, keening wail and I cannot take it any more. My eyes are a faucet, tears gushing forth like a dam springing a leak.

"No!" I shriek, unable to take it anymore, propelling my body forward to tackle Mr. Crane. We tumble to the deck, a sprawling mess of limbs, and in his stunned state (there is no way he could have anticipated my attack) I manage to wrest the whip from him. I should say he does not put up much of a fight.

I scramble to my feet and dart to the rail, raising my hand with the intention of launching the whip into the sea. (It is the second weapon that I fail to toss overboard, but this time it is not for lack of trying.) A strong pull yanks me backward, and I turn to meet the irate eyes of Captain Snow. He wraps his fingers around the handle of the whip, and we both tug, intent on possessing the weapon.

"No!" I weep, tears flowing freely. "No! You'll kill him!" With a tremendous yank, the captain loses his grip. I leap backward, wielding the whip in front of me.

"Give me that whip! Now!" His eyes are a blistering inferno and spittle flies from his snarling mouth. He inches towards me. With a quick lunge, he is upon me. I yelp and raise my arm.

It happens so swiftly that I do not even process what I have done.

It is only when I see the red stripe manifest, tracing an angry path from the captain's left cheek to his right ear that I drop the whip to the deck, paralyzed and unable to catch my breath. I have struck him. I _meant_ to strike him, I think.

The captain, too, stands frozen; his face is a mask of shock and pain. Blood has begun to seep from the gash, oozing down towards his jaw in rivulets. His fingers probe the wound, and upon seeing the blood coating their tips, his face twists into a grotesque façade of fury.

"Holy shit," Abernathy exhales. "She hit him. She fuckin' hit him!"

It almost sounds like he is _proud_ of me.

"Goddamn you, you stupid child!" The air rushes from my lungs, and I gape at him in horror. He seizes the whip from my grasp with such brute strength I stumble back. I can only watch as he storms towards a limp Cinna and begins to flog him mercilessly.

"No!" I scream. "No!"

Cinna's skin flays into ribbons, blood leaching between the wounds, the sinewy muscle exposed underneath. The whip strikes his lifeless body with such force he begins to swing like a pendulum. He no longer makes a sound. The perceived sight of bone sends me racing to the rail, barely in time to retch violently into the sea.

The captain releases a second and then a third round of lashings, each probably consisting of ten to fifteen strikes, before he flings the whip to the deck, chest heaving with exhaustion, and he marches from the deck, muttering a string of obscenities in his retreat.

A sail flaps as a light wind picks up.

It is the only sound for several agonizing moments.

"All hands, uh, back on watch, I suppose," Mr. Crane stutters, his face white as chalk.

No one moves.

"Back to work, men," he repeats quietly, his voice steadier.

Abernathy speaks first. "Cut him down, for fuck's sake!"

Mellark darts across the deck, vaulting his body into the shrouds. He pulls a splicing knife from his belt and with two quick motions, Cinna's bloodied body plunges to the deck.

Mr. Crane gathers the disposed weapons and follows the captain. He does not repeat the command a third time, leaving the crew to their own devices.

Mr. Thread kneels next to Cinna, searching his neck and then his wrist for signs of life. The crew forms a tight circle around their fallen cook, shielding him from my view. I am nauseous again and I vomit once more, my throat burning from the bile's acrid path.

I collapse against the rail, sliding my body to the deck and hugging my knees tightly to my chest. I cry into my skirts until it feels as if my eyes will produce no more tears.

When I finally glance up, I see the men lifting Cinna's body, raising it like pallbearers, four men on each side. Glancing back over his shoulder, Mellark meets my eyes for a brief moment. But he looks away and walks towards the forecastle with the rest of the crew, Cinna's broken body between them.

Mr. Thread shoots me a pitying glare before scurrying after them.

I am left alone.

I consider retreating to my cabin to wallow in misery in private, but I cannot muster the energy to stand. So I wrap my arms around my knees and rock back and forth, swaying in rhythm with my wracking sobs.

I cry for Boggs.

I cry for Cinna.

I cry for myself.

I did this, I understand. I am to blame for everything that transpired. Two men have died, and their blood is on my hands. I may not have fired the musket or issued the lashings, but Boggs and Cinna have left this earthly plain because of me.

And furthermore, the man who did fire the musket and who issued the lashings is the man to whom I pledged my loyalty, to whom I owed my protection, and to whom I entrusted my life. I had been wrong about this despicable human being.

He is a monster.

I know Captain Snow will be able to argue self-defense to justify Boggs's death, as the man had indeed been threatening him.

But Cinna's death is a different story. Captain Snow beat the helpless man ruthlessly. Cinna had been defenseless. He was the sole crew member who came on deck unarmed. He was murdered, volunteer or no volunteer, and there can be no justification to the crime.

When I was at Panem, a frequent lesson taught to us girls was to always take responsibility for our actions, which should always be contemplated most seriously, as actions bred consequences. So when the captain spoke of consequences, he said nothing that I have not heard a myriad of times over the last eight years.

So what disturbs me most, what is clenching my heart in an icy vise, is I cannot fathom how to trace the consequences of the failed mutiny to poor Mr. Cinna, God rest his soul.

Why had he volunteered?

Did he presume the captain would have selected him anyhow?

Was he protecting someone else, someone he suspected the captain _would_ choose?

All that the day's tragedies did was confirm that the crew had not been lying about Captain Snow's nasty streak.

Guilt coils through me, and as I am sitting contemplating my situation, Mr. Thread reappears on deck. He regards me carefully for what seems like hours, but in reality only a few seconds pass before he walks past me. I assume he is heading to the wheel.

I cannot decide for whom I feel sorriest:

For the crew? As the days passed, these rough men had gradually begun to accept me, showing me patience and kindness as I posed silly question after question and listening politely to my stories. (And let us be frank, many of them were educational but in no way entertaining.) And I had begun to grow fond of most of them. I think, my heart seizing tightly, of Mellark: the book he gifted to me; the smile with which he rewarded me when I coyly suggested I might indeed star-gaze with him; the look of complete disappointment he gave me just hours ago when he first spied me on the quarterdeck beside the captain. Would he ever look at me with anything but loathing again? Had I not betrayed him? Betrayed them all?

For the captain? However cruel a tyrant he may be, I _have_ physically wounded him. The gash on his cheek is my fault. I am but a girl, and I have inflicted harm upon my elder. My father would no doubt command me to seek forgiveness from the man, his employee, and make amends for my actions.

For myself? Would my father truly expect me to apologize to such a bully of a man?

Was I not also acting in self-defense when I flicked that whip? Would my parents have preferred I allow the captain to attack me?

An injustice has been committed. I truly believe my father would be equally appalled by the captain's egregious behavior, his absolute cruelty, and I suddenly feel very much convinced that he would believe in my decision not to seek his forgiveness for the lashing I issued. I was indeed validated in my impulsivity.

So I feel a glimmer of hope tug at my conscience that I can attempt to reconcile myself with the crew instead, to regain some semblance of a truce between them and me.

Especially Mellark.

Resolved, I begin to scramble to my feet. But in my haste, my skirt catches in my boot. I am unable to catch myself, and there is nothing to break my fall. I crash to the deck, pain shooting up my left arm like the pricks of a thousand needle points. As I look up, my eyes land on the sight unfolding before me.

While I was crying and contemplating, wallowing in my misery, the entire crew has reassembled, and eight pairs of eyes now glare at me scornfully. Mr. Thread stands nearby, having rejoined the sailors, and he studies me critically. Clutching my aching wrist to my chest, I find my footing and clamor to my feet.

It is then I notice the canvas hammock before the men. It is twisted in several places, but it does not lay flat against the deck. Indeed, it looks as if it bears weight.

The crew continues to stare at me, and their expressions are, as the captain predicted, loathsome. I continue to avoid Mellark's eyes. I cannot bear seeing him looking at me in such a manner.

"Go away," Abernathy barks. "This does not concern you." The men murmur to each other, and the trance is broken. They glance down at the bulk at their feet. Abernathy begins to speak, and at my distance from where they stand, I can only decipher snippets of his speech.

It is a prayer, I think, after overhearing several solemn words.

I understand immediately.

Cinna is in that hammock. This is his funeral.

A lump rises in my throat, and I do nothing to swallow it down. I allow it to choke the breath from me.

Abernathy finishes his prayer, and I hear a chorus of muted 'Amens.' Odair, Chaff, Marvel and Mellark lean down and lift the hammock, and the lack of effort with which they bear the burden tugs at my heartstrings. I close my eyes and say my own silent prayer for my friend, Cinna. My friend.

I am deeply ashamed that I never allowed myself to think such a thought until it was too late.

The four men rest the hammock on the starboard railing, and with a unified count to three, they heave it overboard. A splash follows, and they all whisper more "Amens".

Abernathy mutters a few more words to the congregated men and the group begins to dissemble.

"May I have a word?" I call weakly. The hateful looks return. I shrink back and shake my head. "I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I did not realize…I could not have imagined…" But I cannot continue. The words just will not come. The tears overwhelm me again, and I lower my head in shame.

"Miss Everdeen!"

My head raises slightly, my eyes no doubt swollen and red from my constant weeping. Abernathy stands before me. He scowls at me; his stormy eyes flash lightning.

"Save your breath. We don't want your hollow apologies. We tried. You didn't heed our warnings. You've made your bed. Now you gotta lie on it."

"I am sorry," I whimper.

"Tell it to the captain. You tell him everything else." The sailors snicker, and I catch Cato and Marvel both leering at me.

"I made a mistake!" I shrill, suddenly getting angry. The mention of the captain raises my own ire. "Have none of you ever made a mistake? I hate him! He used me! You were all right and I want nothing to do with him!" Some of the men laugh sardonically, and Abernathy frowns at me.

"And we want nothin' to do with you, sweetheart. You had your chance." He turns his back on me, striding away. Abernathy's watch remains on deck, but the other four men, Mellark included, disappear below into the forecastle.

"I want to help you!" I blurt suddenly. "I can prove to you that I am sincere in my apology!"

Stony silence pervades.

"Please, Haymitch," I hedge, offering one last grasp at sympathy by using his preferred name. I know I catch him by surprise as his grey eyes soften ever so subtly. But he says nothing in reply, and he and the rest of his watch resume their stations.

"Please!"

No one gives me another glance.

Brokenhearted and emotionally spent, I return to my cabin, where the tears fall again and I cry myself to sleep.

But I do not rest for long; I am too beset by my conscience to truly relax. Every time I close my eyes, Cinna's battered and brutalized body dances through my vision, a macabre ballet to further torment me.

I shall never see those gentle, golden eyes again.

"I am so, so sorry," I whisper, gazing up at the ceiling of my cabin. Biting my lip, I am remorseful that the next thought that goes through my distressed mind is that I cannot be certain Cinna would have gone to Heaven.

I quickly push the prejudiced notion away. It shames me that I even continue to have such thoughts; Cinna was a beautiful person. A kind soul. The color of his skin did not betray his generosity and his gentleness. And why do I question where his soul has gone to rest for eternity? Because I have been taught to do so?

I have the sudden urge to be near Cinna and there is only one way I know how to accomplish that. I straighten my dress and re-plait my hair with numb fingers.

I set off for the galley. I walk numbly, my arms wrapped around myself in a lame attempt at comfort.

"Oh!" I jump back, startled, as I stop in the threshold of the makeshift kitchen.

I am stunned to find Mellark filling the small space. His broad, muscular shoulders tense beneath the worn cotton of his shirt at my exclamation of surprise, but he does not turn around from his position at the tiny stove.

"I am…I am sorry," I stammer, backing into the doorframe. "I did not expect to find anyone here. I shall come back later." I spin on my heel and turn to bolt.

"Miss Everdeen, wait."

His voice holds me in place. He faces me, but there is no warmth in his expression. I feel my lower lip start to tremble. This beautiful man surely hates me now.

We stand in weighty silence, neither of us willing to speak first.

"I should go," I sigh softly.

"Why did you come here? Do you require something?"

His tone cuts me as easily as a knife slides through butter. It sounds like disappointment. I cannot explain why this affects me more than if he should express overt disgust.

"Does it matter?" I reply tightly, my hurt feelings boiling to the surface.

"It might."

"I wanted to say goodbye to Cinna. The galley…" I pause to collect my thoughts. "This is where we talked. He was kind to me."

"He spoke highly of you."

"Praise of which I am sure I did not deserve," I murmur, lingering in the threshold still. Mellark remains by the stove; a thin stream of steam begins to waft up from the kettle behind him. He does not argue with my statement. It falls silent again.

"Are you the cook now?" I ask meekly. Mellark shrugs.

"The captain hasn't addressed us yet. It will be his decision."

"But you know how," I whisper. "The tea you made me that first day…"

"I did not make that tea for you," he replies coolly. "Cinna served you tea that I prepared." I ignore the pang that stabs at my heart and steel myself to continue to engage him in conversation, however taut the lines of communication might be strung.

"And the duff. The molasses. Cinna told me that was your idea." A gleam of recognition softens his severe gaze.

"My doing, perhaps, but it was he who had suggested it when he first starting showing me things." His eyes grow glassy as he visibly gets lost in the memory.

"How long did you know Cinna?" I probe gently. The hard edge returns to the blue orbs and his stubbled jaw clenches.

"I am not ready to speak of him in past tense. Forgive me, Miss Everdeen, if I cannot entertain a casual conversation with you about a man whom you now pretend you cared for. He was a genuine friend to all of us on this ship, even to the fiend who brutally murdered him." The kettle is now issuing a steady jet of steam and a sharp whistle cracks the air. Mellark turns his back on me and commences preparing the coffee that will accompany the mates' supper.

"I cannot blame you, Mr. Mellark. I know that you and the other men are quite angry with me. You have every right to be." My words are barely audible, and I swallow hard, my sore throat burning with the effort. "I should never have gone to the captain." Mellark extinguishes the flame on the stove and emits a low, mirthless laugh.

"No, Miss Everdeen." He shakes his head. "We probably should never have listened to Cinna." The accusation stings, the implication laid bare that I indeed did not deserve the praise the kind man doled out on my behalf to this crew. He wanted them to like me, to accept me.

"Please do not say that." I plead with him with my eyes, seizing him in place. "I _should have_ listened to Cinna. To all of you when you warned me."

"_I_ should have known that your loyalty would be to our esteemed captain." He spits the last three words as if they are ashes in his mouth. "It is almost unfair to expect any less…" He trails off and I can hear the scorn in his tone lessening. There is almost a lilt of pity to his voice.

"But it is not!" I blurt, rushing forward. "I see now! I see what a cruel, heartless man he can be! He whipped Cinna because I hit him!"

"Watching a man beaten to death before your very eyes brings things into sharp perspective, does it not, Miss Everdeen?"

"Why did Cinna volunteer?" I ask weakly. Mellark cocks a pale eyebrow at me.

"I cannot presume to guess, Miss Everdeen," he replies. "Cinna was an honorable man and a good friend. He saved the rest of us."

"I wish more than anything that I had listened. Perhaps he would still be here," I confess softly, drawing a great, shuddering breath, willing myself not to cry.

"I wish you had listened too," he says quietly. He closes his eyes and leans back against the sink, rubbing his temples with the tips of his fingers. "I knew you would not, of course, but I hoped with all my heart that you might."

My brows furrow and I give him a quizzical look.

"Why were you so certain I would not listen?" His eyes shift back and forth cautiously and he avoids my gaze in doing so.

"Let us just say I understand you better than you think, Miss Everdeen." A thought drifts through my subconscious. I think of the book that he left in my cabin and the incident between us when I discovered he could read. How he insisted he keep whatever secret he has to himself.

"I know that you cannot fully be held accountable for the way you treat others, miss," he continues, and I think that I hear his voice crack slightly. I find his comment unpleasant nonetheless. My character is being questioned, and I had never, _never_ been told I was anything but mannerly and obedient by my teachers at Panem.

"How do I treat others?" I scowl, advancing upon him, pausing several feet from where he still leans back on the sink. He presses his full lips together, and my eyes follow the path of his tongue as it protrudes to moisten the lower one. There is an unfamiliar darkening in his blue eyes as they focus on me and my breath hitches. A thrill spirals through me at being so close to him again. It is such an unexpected feeling in the midst of our confrontation that it surprises me even more.

"It is not my place to say, miss. I should not have presumed…"

"But you did. Presume. Now you owe me the courtesy of a reply. Why do you say you understand me? You do not know me!" I toss my braid over my shoulder and maintain our heated gaze. His fingers reach behind him, finding purchase on the warped counter, gripping it tightly.

"Alright." He seems nervous, agitated. Perhaps it has finally dawned on him that he has offended me by speaking with such a forked tongue to a girl above him in class.

"I am waiting," I declare boldly.

The clanging of the bell and an urgent call for "All hands!" spares him from any further explanation. Mellark darts from the galley, leaving the meal preparations behind in his haste. I exhale loudly, as the interruption incenses me.

My irritation quickly ebbs and is replaced with curiosity, which propels me to follow Mellark.

The late afternoon sunshine assaults my senses as I emerge on the deck, and I must squint to see the sailors assembled in a stiff line, Mellark slipping into place on the far end beside Gloss.

Captain Snow looms over them from his perch on the quarterdeck. Even at this distance, I can see the whip mark sinuously lacing across his cheek, an angry, bruising violet-red streak against his fair complexion. Mr. Crane is at his side.

"The events of this afternoon shall not affect the rest of this voyage in any way, let that be known. Through no fault but your own, you have lost one hand. Ironic, is it not, that his were the hands that sustained you? Therefore, his duties must be assumed by another so that your miserable mouths may be fed."

"Captain Snow, begging your permission to speak, sir." Mellark steps forward. The captain scrutinizes him with a nasty glint in his eye. "I volunteer."

It does not go unnoticed that he chooses the same two words Cinna used.

"You volunteer?" Captain Snow spits scornfully. "Do you think this is some sort of democracy, Mr. Mellark?"

"I know the basics of preparing the meals and completing some of Mr. Cinna's other duties on this ship," he replies smoothly, not rising to the captain's baiting.

"I should have known you would have some favor for feminine tasks, Mr. Mellark. Leave it to our privileged pretty boy," he taunts mockingly. I swear that I am not imagining the uneasy glance that Mellark issues in my direction, and the captain's spiteful words only pique my interest in the blond man more. In particular, the word _privileged_ nags at me.

I was able to deduce the mutiny and the stowaway. I should be able to solve the mystery that is Mellark. Alas, he eludes me.

"I am willing, sir. That is all I wish to say." Mellark slides back into line without another word.

"Very well, Mr. Mellark. I accept your gracious offer. But you will remain at your sailor's wages and not a penny more." He clasps his hands together behind his back and begins to pace the quarterdeck.

"As for the rest of you churls, Mr. Mellark's reassignment to the galley leaves a vacancy on his watch. I do not care how you fill that post, but I remind you that each watch on my ship is to be manned with a complement of four." A chorus of shouts and gripes erupt from the men.

"You can't require us to work more than our assigned watch!" Cato yells, gesturing wildly with his hands, his long blond locks whipping across his sun-bleached face.

"Captain Snow, sir." The voice is foreign to me, and I see Chaff step forward one slight pace. It is the first time I have heard the quiet, brooding man speak aloud. "It is not within your rights as captain to require any man to work more than one watch." He has simply repeated Cato's indignant outburst, but in a calmer manner. "Only in an emergency."

"Well, then, Mr. Chaff. Consider this an emergency. Four men, plus mate, on each watch. There is no use grumbling or complaining. You can thank your darling Mr. Boggs for this whole debacle. I am sure he is having quite the laugh down in Hell, where he belongs.

"Furthermore, since Mr. Thread saw it fit to abandon his post and chose rather to attend Mr. Cinna's touching memorial service, I shall relieve him of his duties-"

"Sir!" Mr. Thread cries in protest, his face blanching instantly.

"Silence! You, Mr. Thread, shall take your place in the forecastle among your precious comrades. I shall declare Mr. Gloss as your new second mate, effective immediately, since he at least had the brains in his head not to sign your damned round robin." All the sailors' eyes land on a stunned Gloss, who shuffles uncomfortably in place. Mr. Thread fumes, shaking his head repeatedly, and I notice Abernathy's eyes have narrowed to slits and his fists are furled angrily at his sides.

Captain Snow ceases his pacing and grips the railing tightly. I watch the color leach from his knuckles, white blooming over the joints. Raising his eyes to the bloated sky above us, he contemplates the suffocating cloud cover.

"Mr. Crane, second watch should check the shrouds and tighten the studding sails. We shall be ready when a wind hits. It is coming. I know it is. Dismiss the rest." His frosty blue gaze sweeps over the men again, and my blood chills when his eyes find me in the shadows of the barrels on which I am leaning, half-shielded from view. He watches me like a hawk hanging lazily in the sky might spy a field mouse and a vicious smile curls his lips as he turns to leave.

"Captain Snow, sir, should we not have that swabbed off the deck?" Mr. Crane motions to the large crimson stain just beyond where the crew stands. Boggs's blood. The captain glowers at Mr. Crane.

"Let it stand." The superiority in his tone completes the rest of his thought: here is what shall befall the rest of you should you dare question my authority. "The orders, Mr. Crane." And he is gone.

Mr. Crane repeats the captain's orders, and the men vociferously mutter dark oaths and swear under their breaths as they disperse. Mellark disappears into steerage, probably returning to the galley, and I linger on deck. Abernathy remains by the starboard rail, and he plunges his hand into his pocket. Lifting a silver flask to his lips, he throws his head back and drinks liberally from it. He draws the back of his hand across his mouth and replaces the flask in his trousers.

"Haymitch?" I test him timidly, advancing upon him with trepidation. He does not turn to face me; he remains fixed in place, elbows on the railing, staring out at the undulating sea.

"Haymitch?" I try again. I watch his upper body tense and inflate with the deep breath that he draws.

"What do you want, sweetheart?" he growls as he spins around, irritation clouding his stormy eyes. I bite my lip and wring my hands in front of my waist.

"What is the meaning of all that the captain just said?"

"You don't listen real good, do ya?"

"I heard what he said. I do not understand it. There is a difference," I bristle. He glowers at me.

"This crew was short to begin with," he begins, turning away from me again and leaning on the railing once more. I inch forward, taking a place on the railing beside him. The sea is stagnant and still, gentle waves licking at the side of our ship. Gone are the foaming caps that crest and propel us forward with the first whispers of a favorable wind.

"Captain Snow has a reputation. And I'm not talking 'bout all that you saw go down earlier. I mean, the man has a reputation among the companies who hire him. Men like your daddy dearest, sweetheart. They love him."

"They do not see the side of him that you do, obviously."

"Obviously," he laughs cynically. "Captain Snow is known for his fast crossings, and thus, he raises the profits of the companies who employ him." He pauses to pluck a cigarette from behind his ear. I had not even noticed it there among the stringy, greasy locks that reach past his chin. With a quick strike of a match he seemingly produces out of nowhere, he lights it and sucks in a greedy breath. Puffs of smoke escape his chapped lips as he slowly exhales. I watch the glowing tip of the little white stick, the alternating flickers of red and orange holding my gaze until Abernathy taps it over the water and ash disappears into the dense air.

"Why has no one gone to the admiralty courts on behalf of the sailors?" He snorts contemptuously.

"I know damn well that Cinna told you the whole sordid tale of Boggs, sweetheart. We appealed to those white-wigged fops. Boggs stood there, his empty sleeve flapping, but all the captain had to do was open his mouth. They ate up every lie that he spouted."

"Those men are bound by the laws of our proud nation," I whisper.

"Forgive me, sweetheart, but I ain't too proud of a country that looks the other way when injustice flows more freely than the ale at the local taverns."

"That is very un-American of you," I protest. He tosses his hair off his forehead and smirks, taking one last long drag off his cigarette before dropping the stub to the deck and crushing with his heel. His bare heel. My eyes widen in awe, and he shrugs.

"Who ever said I was American?"

"Your accent does not suggest anything but," I return.

"This conversation has gotten off topic, has it not, sweetheart?"

"This is the most you have spoken to me since I boarded this ship."

"Regrettably so," he returns acidly.

"Does all the crew despise me?" I whisper, my voice quaking.

"We don't despise you, sweetheart," Abernathy sighs heavily. "We don't understand you. There is a difference." Our eyes meet, steel on steel, and we stare at each other for a pregnant moment.

"I did not mean to spoil your mutiny," I confess.

"Girls like you, Miss Everdeen-" He paints my name with such sarcasm it causes me to recoil hearing it pass from his lips. "-you never mean what you do. But actions speak louder than words, I'm sure you've heard that nugget of wisdom before."

"I didn't know…" I falter, unable to form my jumbled thoughts into coherent words.

"You did, know, though!" he yells suddenly. "Dammit, we warned you! I warned you. Mellark warned you. Cinna fuckin' _told _you! He told you about Boggs and he told you how evil your precious captain was, and you chose not to listen!"

"That's not true!" I sputter, my pulse pounding and tears welling in my eyes.

"It _is_ true, sweetheart!" he spits back. "The truth is you chose not to listen to us because we're common sailors. We're below you. We're not gentlemen like your father and the illustrious captain, so we couldn't possibly speak the truth." My heart beats erratically. It is a most unpleasant feeling to be spoken of in such vicious terms. It makes me physically ill. More so because I fear he _is_ speaking the truth.

But Abernathy is not done. "As for Cinna, well, you did quite a number on him. He was kind to you. He nursed you day and night on the first days of our voyage."-The tears are rolling freely down my cheeks by this point- "He only sought your friendship in return."

"I tried," I weep quietly, trying to keep my tumultuous emotions in check. He shakes his head vehemently.

"You did not! And because he was black, you rejected him. Rejected his wisdom and warnings and sided with the captain when he…_we_…needed you most."

"I don't wish to hear anymore," I sob, covering my ears with trembling hands. He lunges forward and roughly grabs each of my wrists in his own.

"Tough shit, sweetheart. You asked, now you listen, like it or not. You wanted to know what the captain meant when he addressed us just now? He has a reputation to uphold, and he won't let a depleted crew damage that status. So he intends to work us as hard as he can to ensure that he makes it into port ahead of schedule."

He gestures wildly around him. "This is killing him. No wind. A dead sea. He cannot control the weather. He may think himself God, but he ain't. So if we need to have four men on watch, well, sweetheart, you do the math. Someone's gonna have to pull double duty every day."

"I can help," I whisper lamely, wiping at my tears with my fingertips in spite of how unladylike I know the action is. I could easily grab my handkerchief, but I fear Abernathy's cruel taunts at such an act.

"You?" he guffaws. "You! What can you do?"

"I don't know," I reply weakly.

"Can you cook to free up Mellark to resume his post?"

"No."

"Can you reef a sail? Holystone a deck?"

"No."

"Can you tar a rail?"

I pause. "I do not know."

"You can't do anything, sweetheart. You're good for nothing. Oh, sure, you read to us and enlighten us with your bible verse and morality tales, and you think how wonderful you are for making us better men. We are better for being in your presence, right?"

I hang my head.

"Go away, sweetheart. Go back to your cabin, do whatever it is you do to pass the time around here. Go to the fuckin' captain, for all I care."

"I don't wish to see him," I interject. "And I'm sure he doesn't wish to see me." Abernathy's metallic eyes are iron.

"That makes two of us." He gives me one last lingering look before he turns and purposefully strides away.

* * *

_**A/N:** _I did toy with the idea of having Peeta volunteer...but I then thought better of it due to the backstory I gave him, which you'll soon learn. Indeed, the captain's chosen victim in the novel is the character Cinna is based on. I actually chose him more for this scene (since Cinna's death in CF is so traumatic for Katniss) than any other reason.

And yes, Gale is in this story. We just have yet to see him. He was my only other choice for the whipping victim, but then his character fell into a better place and the rest is history.

Thank you for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

_**Author's Note: **_Thank you so much for the wonderful response to Chapter 8; it was an emotional one to write, and since I had Cinna volunteer instead of being chosen by the captain, that kind of made it worse. I have to say an immense thank you to Kismet for her absolutely beautiful fan art for this story, celebrating her love for Cinna in this story. I am humbled, and as soon as I figure out how to get that lovely banner here, I will post it.

As always thank you for your continued support, your thoughtful reviews, your follows and your favorites.

Jeeno and RynMar...you guys know I'm nothing without you. I appreciate you both more than you know.

* * *

I do not join the men for supper later that night, though my stomach rumbles like distant thunder. The ache in my heart is greater than that in my belly. I remain in my cabin, alone, penning my thoughts in my journal, desperate to clear my cluttered mind and purge my guilty soul. I write until my candle gasps its last breath and sputters out.

As I am slipping into my nightclothes later that evening, a curious idea kindles in my brain. It nags at me for the better part of the next hour before I fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning, unable to quell the thought, waking every half-hour or so.

When I awaken fully early that morning, my mind is made up. This is my chance at salvation.

Jumping off my pallet, my pacing is frantic. _Can I really manage this? _

I slip out of my nightshift, the cotton and lace gown pooling at my feet. Though the air in my cabin is stifling and warm, my bare breasts still react to their sudden nakedness, and I feel my nipples stiffen into tight buds.

I have never stopped to give much pause to my body. I am not immune to the womanly curves that have begun to take shape, though compared to most other girls at Panem, I know I am slight and not as rounded. I cup my breasts, testing their weight in my palms. They are modest without the benefit of my corset. I hope they will swell more before I am fully a lady.

I cross the tiny room and open the top drawer of the bulwark chest. There they are.

The garments Cinna made for me.

Gnawing my bottom lip anxiously, I tug the canvas trousers on over my linen drawers. To my horror, the pants stop just below my knee, the legs of my underclothes protruding past them. I must look ridiculous. I momentarily consider pulling on my stockings, but I know the idea that I am entertaining requires bare feet. If I am to actually go through with this scheme, I will have to eventually have to shear the lower half of my pantaloons. My cheeks burn as I accept the reality that for the time being, there can be nothing between my modesty and the rough canvas. I quickly strip my drawers and redress, the coarse fabric completely foreign against my exposed legs. The freedom I feel is oddly thrilling and a rush of excitement surges through my veins at my next thought.

Do I dare wear the shirt without my corset?

I pull the blouse over my head. The cotton settles against me, cool on my flushed skin, and my nipples graze the material lightly. I am shocked at the comfort I feel wearing these forbidden clothes. I dance a little jig, dissolving into a fit of giggles as my bare toes flit across the wood. There is nothing binding me, restricting me, pinching me.

And it feels like heaven.

My giddiness abruptly gives way to nervousness as I remember why I am wearing the garments in the first place.

_Can I really do this?_ I ask myself again.

I pace nervously, steeling my nerves and attempting to muster enough courage to approach Abernathy. I need to prove myself to the crew, to honor Cinna's memory by making him proud. I need to cement my loyalty and cleanse my soul. This is the only way to gain any redemption in their eyes.

Steerage is dark as I prowl though the blackness, hoping I will find Abernathy on deck. I lost track of the men's watches in the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, so I cannot be sure it is his watch that is on duty.

I also cannot explain why I feel the overwhelming urge to appeal to the churlish sailor. Perhaps it is his unofficial role as the "leader" of the rest of the crew; it's as if to capture his trust is to become infinitely more honorable to the rest of the lot.

The first fingers of dawn are clawing at the eastern sky when I reach the deck. I hover beyond the same barrels that shielded me yesterday and scan the rigging. In the purpling sky I spy the bulky outline of a man's frame. It's Cato.

This is not Abernathy's watch. Defeated, I crouch behind the barrels, contemplating my next move.

I will have to appeal to Abernathy in the forecastle.

Drawing up my courage once more, I scurry back down into steerage and nearly scream when I plow into a body. Instinctively, I swing my arms out.

"Miss Everdeen, stop!" the body's owner hisses. Fingers grip my skin where my shirt ends, just below my elbows, and heart thumping, I meet the eyes of Mellark. His gaze shifts and sweeps over me critically, astonishment widening his blue eyes considerably.

"What are you wearing?" he falters, glancing down to my chest then quickly looking away. Pink visibly tints his cheeks, even in the dimly-lit space.

"Cinna made them for me," I whisper, suddenly hyper-aware of how little clothing I am wearing and at what close proximity my body is to Mellark's. I have to remember to breathe, and for some reason, I moisten my lower lip with the tip of my tongue. "He gave them to me a few days ago."

"Why are you dressed like that?" His voice is tight, strangled, and he looks only directly into my eyes now. I clear my throat and swallow.

"I volunteer," I say as loudly as I can manage, mimicking his words and Cinna's, hoping I sound sincere.

"What?" Those blue eyes widen even more, clouded in confusion.

"I wish to join the crew."

Mellark steps away from me, his face frozen. His chiseled jaw hangs slack, mouth agape as he unsuccessfully tries to form words.

"You…what?" he finally manages to squeak. I thrust my chin up and set my own jaw.

"I wish to join the crew," I repeat emphatically. His gaze skims over me again, more critical than curious this time, and he shakes his head incredulously.

"I heard you," he stammers. "I just…cannot believe it. Why?"

I begin to explain to him my moral dilemma. He listens with an attentive ear, his expression decidedly neutral, and I am grateful for his mute objectivity while I make my impassioned plea.

I explain to him how indebted I feel to the crew for spoiling their chance at justice, however perverted it may have been to seize it for themselves. How horribly guilty I feel, the blood of two men, albeit indirectly, staining my hands. How dreadfully sorry I am for not heeding their repeated warnings. My confession pours forth from me like a dam bursting at its seams.

"I don't know, Miss Everdeen," Mellark sighs when I have exhausted myself. He threads his fingers through his blond hair, tousling the curls more. I have a sudden impulse to reach out and do the same, feel his golden locks between my fingertips. I shake off the distraction and focus my attention on my proposal again.

"I can do it," I insist. "You must believe me!"

He laughs quietly. "I am not questioning whether or not you can do it, although I don't think you realize just what you are getting yourself into should you go through with this." He pauses and regards me deliberately. "And I do believe you," he continues gently. "I believe you are sincerely repentant and you want to help us. What I don't know is how the others will receive you."

"Does your opinion not matter?"

"I cannot say," he replies truthfully. "I am the youngest of the crew and the least experienced. The others have been sailing much longer than I."

"I intended to plead my case to Mr. Abernathy," I admit. "I just ran into you first."

"Literally," he smiles. I duck my head shyly.

"Please, Mr. Mellark."

"Peeta," he corrects me, those hypnotic eyes trapping mine. "If we are to be equals on this ship, now, Miss Everdeen, you'll need to stop with all the "mister" nonsense. So please, call me Peeta."

"Peeta." I let the name roll from my tongue, tasting it on my lips. It is so easy to say. _Peeta. Peeta. Peeta, _my heart chants, mocking me.

He flashes me a sheepish grin. "You're not going to ask me about it? Everyone does."

"I am not everyone, Peeta," I counter softly. He stares at me, our eyes locked in a stalemate.

"We are getting ahead of ourselves," he declares abruptly, gripping my right hand tightly in his. Tiny sparks of electricity pulsate up my arm at his touch. I look up at him eagerly, but his visage has altered and his eyes are serious.

"I do not get to make this decision alone, Miss Everdeen. You will need to appeal to the rest of the crew. You'll need to convince them."

"Then let us not waste any more time."

He leads me through steerage, silent as we approach the forecastle. He explains that I will only be able to address the three men off-duty and I will probably need to wait to caucus the rest when the watches change later in the morning.

I know that it is Abernathy's watch that is off-duty, though I do not know which of the four men on that watch has pulled a double to complete the first watch. I silently say a prayer that it is Marvel; I am hopeful that my forged connections with Odair and to a lesser extent, Brutus, will aid them to accept me. (Though I am nervous Brutus will hold my betrayal against me; after all, I did single him out to the captain when revealing the location of the pistol.)

My prayers fall on deaf ears when Peeta raps faintly on the door to signal our arrival and Marvel is the first sailor I see when it swings open.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" he snarls angrily, jerking his thumb in my direction. I fight the urge to shrink behind Peeta, willing myself to be strong. I cannot show any weakness.

"Miss Everdeen wishes to speak to you. All of you," Peeta announces, squeezing my hand fiercely before releasing it.

"Katniss, actually. You can call me Katniss," I murmur, taking a cue from Peeta's earlier declaration.

He retreats to the threshold of the doorway, leaving me in the center of the room. It is as filthy as I remember it and twice as odorous. Abernathy's glare finds me from under hooded eyes and disheveled bangs as he swings his legs over the edge of his hammock. From his own hammock, Brutus rises and folds his arms across his chest, towering over me like a giant. Nerves singing, butterflies dancing through my stomach, my throat goes dry as paper.

I repeat the exact proposition that I uttered to Peeta not fifteen minutes ago. I speak too fast, I know, the words tumbling from my mouth at an alarming speed in my haste not to lose my bravado. The three men stare back at me, silent, none revealing a shred of visible emotion.

"Please, you must believe I am sincere. I want to help. Let me be the replacement for Mr. Gloss," I conclude emphatically. I exhale and wait, my nerves strung as tight as a bow.

"You're a girl," Brutus states dully.

"A spoiled rotten girl," Marvel adds snidely. "I bet you haven't lifted one of them pretty fingers of yours a day in your life."

"I can learn! I will learn!" I shout. "I am not afraid."

"This isn't a goddamned school," Abernathy snaps. "This is the real world, sweetheart, and no one here has the time or the energy to waste teaching you."

"I am a fast learner. All my teachers have said so."

"She'll be more trouble than she's worth," Marvel warns, addressing the others as if I am not standing a mere five or six feet from him. "I'm not in favor of this at all."

"Nor am I," Brutus adds roughly. I crane my neck behind me, searching Peeta's kind eyes to buoy me. They meet mine, wide and expressive. He cautioned me of exactly this response.

"I can prove myself to you," I continue, not willing to concede yet. "I will do anything!"

"Anything?" Marvel taunts, his reptilian eyes preying on my chest. Instinctively, I cross my arms across my breasts, shielding them from his gawking.

"Say we do take you on. The captain. What'll he say?" Abernathy challenges.

"I do not care what he says! I came to you, not him! Does that not count for something?" I plea. "He shall probably be glad to see me toil and sweat. And I'm not afraid of him." That last part is not entirely true; I have every reason to fear the man. I cannot fathom how he will react to my shocking reversal of station if the crew does accept me.

Abernathy chortles, his breath raspy as he laughs. "You have seen how manipulative he can be. As soon as we bring you aboard, he'll want you back and a dangerous game will be afoot."

"I wouldn't go back to him if he begged me! And I'm not afraid of him!" I repeat, my frustration rising.

The men pepper me with reason after reason why they are against my signing on. I meet each and every one with defiant rebuttals as to why I deserve the chance to prove myself.

"This isn't a test, Miss Everdeen-" Brutus counters.

"Katniss!" I insist, interrupting him. "Sorry," I add quickly, quieting my tongue.

"You don't get to try it out and when things go badly and your back aches and your palms blister and your body cannot move from sheer exhaustion…you don't get to take it all back and return to your little cabin," he finishes.

"You sign on, it's until we pull into port," Marvel agrees. The two exchange a pointed look, then both shift their eyes towards Abernathy.

"A test," he coughs, his steely gaze fixed on me like a lion stalking its prey. A shiver runs down my spine and apprehension washes over me.

Abernathy vaults to his feet and stands before me.

"Here's what I think, sweetheart. I think your pretty little mind has conjured up this ridiculous idea to make yourself feel better about all that went wrong yesterday. You're persistent, I'll give ya that, but I don't think you have a fucking clue what being a member of this crew really entails. When you first told me you wanted to help yesterday, I asked ya if you could do any of the tasks we are charged with completing on this ship. And what did you answer to each one?"

"That no," I reply meekly, "I could not."

"You said you're willing to toil and sweat, but are you prepared to blister and bleed? To have your body so wracked with pain after the first few days that you will wish for death because at least that will make the aches go away?"

"Yes," I whisper uncertainly. His threats are inciting a panic in me. _What am I doing?_

"So I propose a test, sweetheart. You pass it, you convince _me,_ and I'll be your loudest champion. I'll see you a part of this crew and let you sign your name to articles. I'll make sure none of the other men on this ship blocks your signing and I'll see to it they treat you as an equal. No more, but no less either."

"What is the test?" My pulse throbs in my veins, and it feels as if my heart is going to burst through my rib cage, so wildly is it pounding against the bones.

"One climb to the royal yard and back down again. You make it, you sign on and you're one of us. For better or worse."

A lump the size of a grapefruit lodges itself in my throat, and I swallow several times to push it down. The royal yard is the highest sail on the main mast. It must be at least one hundred and forty or fifty feet up, and I cannot fathom how the sailors reach it so swiftly and so frequently. A sailor on watch could make the climb as many as fifty times a day. The thought churns my stomach violently.

"You don't have to do it, Miss Everdeen," Peeta leans forward, his breath tickling the shell of my ear. "Your determination is admirable though." It sends a pleasant shudder through me and the small compliment spurs my courage.

"What say you, sweetheart?"

I draw myself to my fullest stature and square my shoulders. "Let's go."

My limbs feel like melted butter as I follow the men onto the deck. The walk feels much like that of a prisoner being led to the executioner's block. We assemble below the main mast, and as I crane my neck to get a clear view of the royal yard, my stomach tethers itself into an unyielding knot. It has never seemed as high as it does now. What have I done?

"You've got two choices, sweetheart." Abernathy clears his throat. "You can shimmy up the mast itself or you can use the ratlines as a makeshift ladder and climb up the shrouds. Neither is an easy task for a novice sailor, let alone an inexperienced girl."

"I shall do my best," I whisper, my nerves fraying with each passing second.

To my horror, the other watch migrates over to where we are assembled. I will be scrutinized, mocked perhaps, by the entire complement of the crew. Cato and Marvel jostle each other and sneer at me contemptuously.

"You have no choice but to do your best," Abernathy continues. "There is no room for failure in climbing, sweetheart. Because if you do-fall, that is-you can pray for a soft fall."

"A soft fall?" I echo dumbly.

"Aye. Into the sea, where you'll have a better chance of drowning quickly and mercifully."

"And if I don't?" I brace myself for the inevitable ghastly response.

"You'll crash to the deck and break your neck."

"My neck?" I stammer.

"Instant death," Cato interjects coldly, malevolence glinting wickedly in his eye.

"Still prepared to do this?" Abernathy wonders.

I am not. My heart has forgotten how to beat and my legs have gone completely numb. I scan the crowd of men quickly, greeted by a multitude of emotions playing on their faces. Odair gives me an encouraging nod, and Peeta locks those brilliant eyes on mine, fueling me with confidence.

"Yes," I tremble.

"Then you best get going before the captain comes out of his cabin. Which way will ya climb, sweetheart?"

I stare up awestruck at the massive girth of wood. It is essentially three felled-trees fastened together, and even with my arms fully extended to their widest span, they barely cover half of the center length. There is no possible way I can shimmy, as Abernathy suggested. The ratlines are my only hope.

A tug on my arm draws me back flush against Peeta. I am too numb to enjoy the delicious quiver that overtakes me as our bodies make contact, my back on his chest.

"Choose your path carefully. Only one set of rigging will go straight to the top. Otherwise, you'll have to walk along the trestletrees to ascend each new set of rigging."

"Okay," I murmur uncertainly. .

"Take your time," he breathes quietly into my ear. "Rest if need be. You've got three chances at each of the yards on the way up."

"Okay." I glance up again, making note of the main yard, topsail and topgallant yards that precede the crowning royal yard. They were probably set thirty or forty feet apart from each other.

"And Miss Everdeen?"

I twist myself slightly to meet those eyes.

"Don't look down," he murmurs, winking at me before stepping back into place among his brethren. I inhale, flooding my lungs with as much stagnant oxygen as I can. I immediately regret it, the humid air searing me with each subsequent breath. I cough lightly to expel phlegm and my heart thuds dully.

"It's now or never, sweetheart." Abernathy fixes me in place with iron eyes, and I nod absently.

Approaching the railing, my mind races a mile a minute, thoughts tumbling fast and furious, though none slowing long enough for me to contemplate them. My legs are leaden and each step feels like wading through cement. As I reach for the lowest deadeye, the men begin to call out to me.

"God be with you, Miss Everdeen." Chaff, I think.

"Don't look down." Odair, reaffirming Peeta's advice. "'Er up!" he adds.

"She'll never make it to the main yard." Cato. Vicious cackling follows.

"You can do this, Miss Everdeen!" Peeta.

I had perched on the railing several times before, courtesy of Odair teaching me how to haul myself up using the deadeyes. So I haul myself onto the rail with facility. The simple action bolstered my self-esteem. I take one final glance down at the crew, steel my nerves, say a quick prayer (though I have never been good at praying) and begin my climb.

The ratlines are indeed like ascending a giant ladder so I pause to process Peeta's advice. Indeed, I can see one column of ratlines leading directly up to the royal yard. Heart pounding, pulse racing, I draw a breath and extend my left leg up to clutch the rope with my curled toes. It is a greater stretch than I had imagined, and thus, my arms must exert as much effort as my thighs to haul myself up with each step.

I climb hand over hand until I reach the main yard, where I pause to catch my breath and snatch a quick glance down. The entire crew stands like statues, every eye fixed on me. A quick glance up momentarily disorients me, so alike are the listless gray sails and the swollen sky. I shift my eyes out to the sea to regain my bearings. And I continue on.

My fingers and toes begin to cramp around the time I reach the topsail. I slump against the mast, chest heaving, muscles screaming. My body no longer feels like it belongs to me. I make the mistake of darting my eyes downward, and my stomach heaves violently as the ship pitches and rolls. At least I can be thankful for the lack of wind. The ship is swaying enough at this height without the added struggle of blustery gusts at my back.

"What are you waiting for?"

Cato. His mocking tone ignites a fire in my veins, and with renewed determination, I grab for the next set of ratlines and scale them, ignoring the searing pain radiating through my palms and the stabbing twinges along the length of my shins. I scramble up as fast as my rubbery limbs will take me until I am at the topgallant spar. My heart beats wildly, a frantic waltz of exhilaration and terror at the final ascent. I lock my eyes on the royal yard, twenty-five or thirty feet above me. This is it. I can do this.

It is at that moment _The Mockingjay_ finally finds wind. It is a slight one at that, but the irony is not lost on me. Sails begin to puff out, billowing in the gentle breeze, snapping and filling, snapping and filling. Trembling with exhaustion, I grip the ratline and heave myself upward. The ship's swaying increases, and at my height, its metronome motion threatens to toss me into the sea with even the tiniest of errors on my part. One slip of a finger. One missed foot on a line.

My braid whips wildly into my face, flicking at me like the lash of a cat's tail. I sputter and inhale a mouthful of hair. Nausea swells in the pit of my stomach as with each subsequent step, the ship tosses me, like a fish caught in a net desperate to free itself.

I will not let go.

Swallowing a tide of bile, I clench my eyes shut to avoid further vertigo. I am almost there.

Several more feet.

A few inches.

Almost there.

My fingers quake fiercely as I force my gelatinous arm to reach up and touch the spar of the royal yard.

There. I did it.

My heart swells with pride, beating wildly, my breaths coming in greedy gasps.

But there is little time to revel in my accomplishment. In reality, my test is only half over.

I still have to climb down.

Peeta told me to take my time, but I estimate it has already taken me thirty minutes to ascend (the real sailors need but two to three minutes!) and I want nothing more than to end this torture. I suck in a shallow breath and wrap my aching fingers around the ratline.

My deadened toes grope for the ratlines beneath me, and to my horror, they flail through the air, desperately searching for the thin rope.

It is infinitely more difficult going down than it was getting to the top, and the sickening reality is a punch to my churning gut. At least climbing up I could see the path above me. The descent is blind. I cannot see each step below me, and when I do attempt a glimpse, the sight of the rolling, slate-sea swirling against the veering horizon causes such a sense of disorientation in me that I am forced to screw my eyes shut.

Hand over feet I inch my way down, slowly, painstakingly so, to avoid becoming entangled in the sails that continue to snap and fill around me. I do not even pause at the topgallant spar, willing myself to press on and finish.

But I should have paused to get my bearings. Because it is there that I fall.

I do not do anything differently than I have done the first eighty or so feet down. It is simply a misstep; when my foot seeks out the next ratline, I miss it entirely and my foot plunges to the one below it. The gap is too great, and the momentum hurls my body backward. An ear-piercing scream shatters the stagnant air, and it is only seconds later that I am suspended, swinging through space, that I realize the shriek came from me. A tremendous pressure presses on my skull as the blood rushes to my head, being the lowest point of my body in this precarious position.

My limbs and the lines are so hopelessly tangled that I am in no imminent danger of plunging to my death. There would simply be no way for me to fall so knotted am I. Tensing the muscles of my stomach, I use my meager upper body strength in an attempt to garner momentum. I grope frantically for anything to grab hold of, to hoist myself upward. Nothing. The ship plunges, and I bite back another scream. As frustrated and as terrified as I am in the moment, I will not let on that I am in danger. The crew will not hear my distress.

But as the ship dips, it propels me forward (backward, technically, but I am facing the mast in my suspended state) enough that my desperate fingers clutch and clasp a dangling rope. The hemp strands rub my hands raw as I use it to lever my body up and extricate myself from the rigging. I cling to the makeshift ladder and will back the tears that want so desperately to fall. My body trembles from its efforts.

I may live to pass this test now, but to do this fifty times in the course of a day? How can I? What was I thinking?

Once I have regained my senses and my breathing returns to its previous rate, I resume the downward climb. I pass the mainyard and emerge from the bed of sails, finally able to open my eyes and glance down.

The crew remains in the same places they were when I began some fifty minutes or so earlier, and upon sighting me, several of them call out words of encouragement and cheers. Their praise lifts my spirits and stimulates my fatigued body to clamor down faster.

When my feet finally make contact with the rail, Odair sprints towards me, arms outstretched.

"Jump, lassie!" he urges, his grin so wide that his dimples are valleys on either side of his mouth.

"I'll do it all on my own, Mr. Odair," I reply proudly, leapingdown from the railing to tumble into a careless heap onto the deck, a mass of wilted limbs and tired bones.

The crew, most of them, erupt into raucous applause and thunderous shouts. Peeta pushes through the throng of men to reach out his hand and guide me to my feet. I stagger under my own weight, and he throws his arms around me in a crushing embrace. I am so overjoyed, so relieved that I do not even question his impulsive gesture. I give in to the incredible feeling of his strong arms enveloping me, and I rest my weary head on his shoulder.

I do not have time to linger in Peeta's arms because I am seized by Odair, who whirls me through the air, laughing giddily as he swings me in circles.

"Ye did it, lassie!" He sets me back down on wobbly legs, and I search the rest of the men's faces for their reactions.

Cato and Marvel glower at me, neither offering any sort of felicitations in my direction. But Chaff, Brutus and even Mr. Thread all smile warmly, their weathered faces kind and their eyes shining with approval.

But it is Abernathy who surprises me most. His granite eyes soften and crinkle, lips curving into a slight smile. He nods at me.

"Well done, sweetheart. Welcome aboard." He extends his left hand, and I shake it hesitantly at first. His grip is firm, and he pumps my hand vigorously.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The cold voice at my back chills the blood in my veins and further liquefies my limbs.

I turn.

Captain Snow stands before me.

* * *

_**A/N:**_It should be noted that the test Haymitch gives Katniss is the same test the girl in the novel faces. (She also begs the captain for forgiveness first. No way Katniss was doing that!) I wrote two different alternate tests, but none of them had the same danger quotient, and thus, the climb seemed to be the only viable test the sailors would have accepted. That said, I condensed it immensely from the novel, as the sailing terms really are overwhelming without the diagram!

What do you say we start working towards that M rating in Chapter 10? Yes?

Thanks for reading. :)


	10. Chapter 10

_**Author's Note: **_As always, thank you for the wonderful reviews, the follows and the favorites. I so enjoy responding to my readers and engaging in conversations with you about my story. Thank you for sticking with this journey...and to any new readers, welcome aboard.

We are almost halfway through the story, so the Everlark will be picking up full speed in the next few chapters. I look forward to hearing everyone's thoughts.

To my lovely muses, jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar, you know how much you are appreciated. And a special thank you to Kismet for her wonderful fan art that now accompanies this story AND to Ro Nordmann for the phenomenal banner. ( : / / tinyurl AFW-banner ...put in the http before the semi-colon and remove the spaces!) You ladies are awesome!

* * *

The sailors part like the Red Sea as Captain Snow strides menacingly towards me, face flushed crimson.

"Did you not hear the question, Miss Everdeen?"

"It's Katniss," I snap back.

"What is the meaning of this?" he snarls. "Where did you get those ridiculous garments? Where are your proper clothes?" He assaults me with the questions, and I fidget, bouncing on the balls of my feet nervously. I can sense his rage building as I stand silent before him and an unexpected bolt of confidence shatters my anxiety.

"I've joined the crew," I announce loudly, thrusting my chin upward and meeting his chilly eyes rebelliously.

"You will do no such thing," he barks, practically lunging at me. I stand my ground, folding my arms across my chest.

"But I have. Ask them."

"Go to your cabin and remove that preposterous clothing at once."

"No."

His eyes narrow until they are little more than slivers below his bushy brows. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'no.' I'm one of them now." I know it is wrong of me to speak to a man of his station, especially one of my elders (monster or not), in such a disrespectful fashion. But I cannot suppress the tiny thrill that darts through me at my obstinacy, and I am still reeling from the exhaustion and exhilaration of my climb.

"You listen to me, you idiotic little girl," he hisses. "You will get yourself to your cabin and redress in your proper attire. You are disrupting the entire crew with your self-centered behavior. I will not allow it."

"I will not." My voice is firm and clear, and I again surprise myself with my boldness. The captain's face is now the shade of a ripe plum, and he fixes me in place with that cold stare.

"You will."

"I am now a member of this crew. Ask them!"

"Who is behind this?" he yells, raking his eyes among the assembled men. No one utters a word; they meet his stare with equally blank ones.

"It was my idea," I continue. "I petitioned them, they agreed."

"You agreed?" he probes the crew. Again, they remain mute. "You really would have this spoiled brat as one of you?"

"She proved herself," Abernathy rasps. Captain Snow snorts disdainfully.

"Proved herself?" he leers. "What is she good for? I remind you sick charlatans that she is underaged."

"She climbed to the royal yard and back. She proved she can be a worthy member of this crew," Haymitch fires back, ignoring the captain's accusation (which I must admit puzzled me at the time).

"I cannot imagine your father would be pleased with your decision, Miss Everdeen. I imagine he would find it highly demeaning for a lady of your stature and he would forbid you to-"

"My father would applaud my intentions," I interject. "And I do not think it is wise to presume you know your employer better than I know my own flesh and blood." I tamp down a smile, my pulse thrumming with energy. I am shocked at how good it feels to speak my mind with such a loose tongue!

"Mr. Crane?" the captain barks. It is only then I notice the quiet man standing back well behind the crew.

"Sir?"

The captain remains silent. He opens his mouth to speak, but quickly snaps it shut. Frustration is etched on every inch of his face. His mouth opens and closes several times like a trout gasping for breath.

"Sir?" Mr. Crane repeats. The captain straightens his frame and sets his shoulders.

"This is your final chance, Miss Everdeen. March yourself to your cabin at once. Remove that scandalous outfit and put on your gown. We shall forget your selfish interlude and go on with the voyage."

"No." My voice is clear, firm. My decision is final.

"If you choose to perpetuate this absurd scheme, there will be no turning back. Once you are with them, you are with them for all purposes. Do not come crying to me when things get tough."

"I would not dare dream of coming to you for any kind of assistance," I reply. His eyes narrow at me and a chill slides down my spine. I straighten my back and meet his stony glare.

"Very well. Mr. Crane, see to it that Miss Everdeen's personal belongings are removed from her cabin. She is no longer welcome there. Let her assume her place in the forecastle with the rest of these dogs."

"Yes, sir."

"And be certain to update the log. List _Miss Everdeen_ as lost at sea." He glowers at me, those sinister eyes brimming with poisonous distaste. " As for you, _Mr. Everdeen, _you will be expected to work as hard as the rest of them. I will personally see to it!" He pivots on his heel and storms off.

"I am prepared for it!" I call after his retreating figure. Mr. Crane hovers among us for a moment.

"We'll get her things," Abernathy says to him, and the first mate nods and cracks a small smile at me, then disappears without another word.

The enormity all that has just transpired hits me like a blow to the back of the head. I slump to the deck, a silly grin plastered to my face, my spent legs unable to support me any longer. Most of the crew hollers their approval and approach me to pat my shoulder or ruffle my hair. Peeta hangs back, almost shyly, and I sense that he wants to follow suit and congratulate me, but he remains in his place. It disappoints me immensely.

"So, sweetheart, you ready to work?"

I smile up at Abernathy. "I will not disappoint you."

"Well, you've already surprised me."

"I surprised myself," I laugh. "So I will take Mr. Mellark's place on first watch?"

"Fuck that. I don't want her on my watch," Cato growls, hovering over me.

"Cato," Abernathy warns, grabbing the muscular man and pushing him back slightly.

"I'm serious, Haymitch!" he yells. "I ain't working alongside some fuckin' girl."

"Switch 'er with Marvel," Odair interjects softly. "I'll gladly work with 'er. Show'er the ropes."

Abernathy faces the shorter man, who shadows Cato, stance identical, shooting me the same reproachful sneer. "Marvel, you okay with that?"

"Fine by me." He spits at the deck, the wet glob of saliva landing mere inches from where I sit.

"Done. Up you go, sweetheart." Abernathy reaches out a hand, and I grasp it. His skin is rough, like the riding saddles at Panem, but his grip on me is gentle. I tentatively rise to my feet, my legs wobbling a bit as I put weight on them.

"Ye'll be sore tomorrow," Odair whispers to me.

"I cannot feel my legs now," I hiss back quietly. "I can't imagine how much worse I can possibly feel." He laughs amiably, and I smile, as the sound is contagious.

"Miss Everdeen," Abernathy begins. "You have proven your intentions to be a member of this crew, and we wholly accept your offer. I do think it's time we no longer address you as "miss"-"

"You never addressed me as 'miss'," I tease. His eyes wrinkle with laughter in response. "And I have already requested that you call me Katniss."

"Beautiful name fer a beautiful lassie." Odair reaches over and squeezes my hand reassuringly. I sneak a glance at Peeta, whose enchanting blue eyes are locked on me again. We hold each other's gaze for several moments before I feel a blush creeping up my neck and across my cheeks and I quickly look away.

Abernathy clears his throat. "Men, Katniss is now one of us. We will be her brothers, and she will be afforded the same equal treatment as every sailor on this ship. All in favor, reply with 'aye'."

The men chorus their "ayes," but Cato and Marvel are silent.

"Opposed, speak now." He shoots the two a withering glare but neither does utter an opposition.

"You understand what this means, sweetheart?" Abernathy's tone holds no malice, no condescension. He is truly just testing my comprehension of my new role.

"I think so," I hedge.

"We'll give ya as much privacy as we can in the forecastle. You may be one of us, but you're still a lady." My blush blooms full on my cheeks, and I murmur a quick thanks to the men.

"I promise you'll not regret this," I swear, making eye contact, one by one, with each and every sailor. My heart skips a beat when I reach Peeta. Perhaps I am imagining it, but the look with which he rewards me is pregnant with admiration.

"First watch, back on duty!" Abernathy barks. "Mellark, you best be getting back to the galley." The crew begins to disperse. Cato, Marvel, Chaff and Mr. Thread retreat, resuming their positions on watch, and Peeta gives me one last brief look before he too disappears.

"Odair, why don't you take Katniss to her cabin, help her move her belongings to the forecastle. I'd just assume she go with you, to make sure everything is cleared out."

So it is that I follow Odair to my cabin and am stunned to discover that it is already bare. Nothing remains. We say nothing to each other and make a quick dash to the forecastle. My belongings are piled outside the door and my clothes have been neatly draped over my valise. I am mortified to think my underclothes have been handled, as they are part of the bundle that was in the drawer. I hastily gather the garments to my chest and Odair grabs the valise. He throws open the forecastle door and we step inside. He surveys the space and crosses the room, placing my valise before a low hammock in the back corner.

"This one'll 'ave t'be yers." He pauses in front of the sling, a thoughtful expression on his handsome face. He nods to himself and moves back across the room, rummaging through the heap of sails and tarps near the door. I linger in the threshold, watching him intently.

Several minutes later, he pulls two sheets of canvas from the pile and returns to my new hammock. Working swiftly, he manages to suspend them and tack them up as a curtain, a means of providing me with privacy, I realize. He turns and sweeps his arms wide with a flourish, his eyes sparkling with pride.

"That'll do, no lassie?" I nod happily, my lips curving into a wide smile.

"It's perfect, Odair, thank you."

He tousles his golden-red curls. "Ye can call me Finnick, if ye wish, lassie."

"Only if you call me Katniss," I shoot back playfully, though I have come to enjoy being called 'lassie,' I must admit.

"Aye, lassie, I'll try." He grins. "Katniss. I've never 'eard that one before."

"It's a plant," I offer. "An edible tuber that grows near the water. My mother wanted to name me Katherine, but Father thought there were too many Katherines." I am rambling again, I know, but Finnick is so easy to talk to. He laughs lightly. I think, once more, that it is such a marvelous sound. One could never be sad in his presence, and I reflect back to the story he shared with me about his Annie. It makes my heart ache to think this kind man has known the pain he has.

"Yer father sounds like a wise man."

"He is," I agree, smiling easily at the thought of him.

"Ye'll prob'bly want yer trunk from top cargo, no?"

I shrug, chewing my lip in thought. "I guess. I mean, maybe? I'm actually not certain what use I have for it now. All the clothes that are kept within it are hardly things that I'll wear while working."

"Ye'll need more than that, though," he points out, indicating what I am currently donning. "Even we change a few times a week." He winks at me.

"This is all that Cinna made me," I whisper, heart clenching at the memory of the kind man.

"We'll take care o'it, lassie. Katniss. Cinna'd been showin' Peeta the ropes fer the last couple o'voyages. I'm sure he can fashion ye some more," he adds kindly. "Ye'll still read t'me, aye?"

"Aye," I laugh heartily. We exchange a look, another laugh, and he reaches over to push away a rebellious lock of hair that has escaped my braid. He tucks it behind my ear.

"Get some rest, Katniss," he orders gently. "We're on watch in a few bells."

I crawl into the hammock and Finnick draws the curtain closed. I don't remember closing my eyes, but I must doze off because a gentle touch on my shoulder shakes me awake some time later.

"Miss Everdeen?" My eyes fly open. A face peers expectantly between the two sails that now act as my privacy shield.

It's Peeta. I blink rapidly a few times and rub at my weary eyes. Wincing, I draw my body into a sitting position and swing my legs over to the floor. The pangs in my shins are so intense that it feels as if someone is repeatedly striking them with a phantom mallet. I gingerly roll my shoulders, but the mere motion causes me to gasp in pain.

"You should call me Katniss, you know," I scold him through gritted teeth. He peers down at me, concern heavy in his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

"I didn't expect the pain to be so immediate," I confess softly.

"You're not exactly used to any kind of manual labor. Your body will most likely ache for days until your muscles get used to being worked so hard," he explains, hesitating in between the sails. I sense that he is waiting for me to invite him to enter further.

"Did you want something, Mr. Mellark?" It's out of my mouth before I can stop it, and he raises an eyebrow at me.

"You should call me Peeta, you know," he reprimands loftily, echoing the words I chided him with moments ago.

"Did you want something, _Peeta_?"

"I thought you might want some tea to relax," he replies. "But perhaps it's best you just rest. I'm sorry for disturbing you." He retreats and the sails swish back into place. I take my lower lip between my teeth, worrying it as I consider his kind offer.

"Peeta!" I call weakly. His footsteps cease and then grow louder until the sails part again.

"Yes?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you," I smile wanly. "But I don't think that I can stand on my own."

He is by my side in an instant. Leaning down, he reaches behind me and places his right hand on the small of my back. I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and it floods my own body with warmth. He extends his left hand to me, and I clasp it, allowing Peeta to guide me to my feet. I stumble on my feeble legs, and I find myself suddenly wrapped securely in Peeta's arms. A tremulous sigh escapes my lips, and we stare expectantly at each other, unblinking, unmoving. My heart pounds.

"Careful," he whispers, his breath tickling my nose and cheeks. The sweet smell of spearmint mingles with his usual musky scent. "You can walk, yes?"

"I think so." My voice is hoarse, and I am uncertain whether it is due to my weakened state or the heat suddenly coating my throat.

"Then let's get you to the galley and get you some tea, Katniss."

It takes longer than usual for us to reach the galley, as my steps are slow and measured. Each stride takes effort, and when we arrive, Peeta ushers me onto the chair, setting about preparing me a cup of tea.

"Thank you." I sip the beverage gradually as Peeta slides into the chair opposite me. The fragrant stream has a therapeutic effect, soothing me more and more with each sip. It does not erase the throbbing in my bones, but it is a start.

Peeta watches me intently, and I realize at this closeness that I could count each of his eyelashes, so pronounced and long are they. Blond stubble stipples his jaw. I wonder what the coarse little hairs would feel like under the pads of my fingers. I scold myself for having such a thought, but the idea persists like a gnat on a summer day.

_I want to touch this man. _

Those wide, blue eyes are fastened on me, something akin to admiration flickering in them again.

"What?" I feel my cheeks color anew. A slow smile turns up the corners of his mouth.

"You were amazing today," he murmurs shyly. The flush spreads across my face and I lower my eyes to the rim of the cup.

"I owed it to Mr. Boggs and Cinna."

"None of them thought you'd do it," he adds. "Complete the climb, I mean."

"Most of them probably would have preferred that I hadn't."

"I wouldn't say Cato or Marvel were rooting for you, but we all know we desperately need the help. So no, no one wanted you to fail, Katniss."

I don't know that I will ever tire of hearing him say my name.

"You surprised a lot of men today," he continues. "I remember the first time I had to climb to the royal yard. I was terrified. You seemed like a natural up there. What I could see, anyhow."

"Oh, make no mistake, I was terrified," I laugh. "I still am. I cannot believe I will be making that climb daily."

"You'll be great." He impulsively grabs my hand, the one that is not curled around my tea cup, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. I inhale sharply. How is it that such innocent contact can have such an effect? My nerves are all alight, my blood sizzling. I glance up at him, my own eyes wide. He coughs and withdraws his hand, drumming it against the table nonchalantly.

"Finnick will be a great resource."

"Yes, it will be nice having someone who will have patience with me. He is a lovely man."

"He is," Peeta agrees, still tapping his fingers on the gnarled wood. "He's had a lot of sadness for someone so young."

"How old is he?"

"Twenty-four. But he's lived a lot in those twenty-four years."

"He told me about his Annie."

"Yes, Annie is his greatest sadness, but it's not really my place to tell you about her. Lend him an ear, Katniss, if the opportunity arises. It's good for him to talk. He keeps a lot inside."

"I'll try," I supply. "I guess you're happy to be in the galley now?"

"Yes," he begins slowly. "I did volunteer, after all."

"So you can cook?"

"This isn't really cooking, Katniss," he chuckles.

I am about to probe further about his prowess in the kitchen when the clanging of bells interrupts my train of thought. I realize with each subsequent toll that it is the end of watch.

It is my turn.

"I should go, Peeta. Or, I mean, I must go. It's my watch." I lever myself from my seat, grimacing as I do so. Peeta stands as well. "Thank you for the tea," I smile.

"I know you often joined the captain for tea." He pushes an unruly lock of blond hair off his forehead and scratches absently at the nape of his neck. "And though you should rest when you are off watch, please, Katniss, if you should ever wish to join me for tea or need company, I am here."

"I think that I should like that," I murmur, tugging my bottom lip between my teeth.

We stand, neither of us saying a word, holding each other's gaze for what seems like longer than it actually is.

"Thank you, again," I smile shyly before turning and leaving him behind in the galley.

"Katniss! Good luck!" I hear him call, and my mouth stretches into a grin as I edge through steerage and bound onto the deck with renewed vigor.

* * *

My first official watch is uneventful. In fact, my first several days as a crew member pass with relative monotony, including the repeated agonizing pain that wracks my body, as promised.

Finnick, Haymitch and Brutus (Finnick and Haymitch insist I now call them by their first names; Brutus maintains that "Brutus" is his only name and I do not press him for further details) are patient and eager instructors. They take me under their wings, not merely explaining each new task, but showing me in kind the safest way to do this or the fastest way to do that.

Finnick is a master at ropes and tying knots, and he shares his secrets with me. I watch his dexterous fingers work the frayed fabric with ease, and I study as he explains the differences among the various kinds and purposes. Anchor hitches, bowlines and square knots come easily to me, but I struggle mightily with Carrick Bends and Clove Hitches. I am particularly frustrated by the latter because I know it is a simple knot to tie.

"Aye, lassie, stop worryin'. 'Tis deceptive and I ain't too fond o'em 'cause they slip so much. I'd just as soon us'a constrictor. I can teach ye that in due time." He winks at me and those friendly dimples melt away my aggravation.

For his churlish, tactless character, Haymitch astounds me the most. He shadows me constantly, showering me with advice to keep me safe at every task. My next climb up the mainmast (and most subsequent climbs therafter) is done in tandem with him, and he takes added time to show me how to complete my duties with one hand while aloft. I must always hold on, he warns, and so he guides me through jobs such as reefing sails and cutting free tangled ones. They are tedious lessons, and I am remiss to discover I am not as quick a learner above the ship as I am on the deck.

The physical labors of scraping the hull, pounding oakum, and tarring the rigging take a toll on me. Working under the unyielding rays of the summer sun, my porcelain skin turns a shocking shade of pink and Finnick somewhat gleefully congratulates me on my first sunburn.

"At least now ye've got some color in yer cheeks," he teases as we sit at the edge of my hammock, cracking open aloe shoots that the men keep on hand to rub into my tender, blistering skin. I moan my appreciation as it absorbs the cooling salve. "Without the aid o'young Mr. Mellark, that is," he adds, a knowing gleam in his eye. My heated skin flames even more at his pointed insinuation. Have I been that obvious with my affections?

"I do not…" I begin, lamely trailing off when I see Finnick's eyes have softened sympathetically.

"'Tis okay, lassie," he murmurs. "'Tis a very natural thing fer a girl yer age t'catch the eye o'a handsome lad like him." He has a wistful, faraway look on his face, and I sense he is thinking of his lost love. I reach over and trace my index finger along the curve of the mermaid's tail on his tattoo.

"How did you know you loved Annie?" I ask shyly. Finnick's lips curl into a sad smile.

"I can't remember," he confesses. "I can't remember a time that I didn't love 'er, so the remembering is gettin' harder and harder the longer I've been without 'er."

"So tell me how you met her," I beseech softly. Finnick nods, and he swallows, the prolonged bob of his Adam's apple against the column of his throat indicating the effort it takes.

I immediately regret my request and backpedal, "It's okay, Finn. You don't…"

"It was a late summer morn. August. Me dad had just thrown me out o'our cottage-"

"Your father cast you out of your own home?" I interrupt, incredulous. Finnick sighs and rubs at the back of his neck.

"'Tis complicated, Katniss," he replies. "We both said things we regretted, and I know now I was bein'a stubborn kid. I was a smart arse. The world was big, me town was small, and me parents were strict." I wrinkle my brows. His words remind me of something Cinna once told me. It seems as though the sea is perdition for wandering souls.

"So I needed a job, a place t'stay. I was seventeen, and I was alone. 'er father 'ad a farm, raised sheep fer wool and goats fer milk and cheese. 'e took me on as a hired 'and."

He pauses. "I don't know if I loved 'er at first sight. I know she grabbed me attention right off, though. I remember I was pitchin' 'ay in the field when a streak o'raven darted past me like lightnin'. She was racin' her sister, and the sheer joy on 'er pretty face, God, she was radiant." I lean back against my hammock, slightly light-headed from my sunburn and completely mesmerized by his words. My eyes never leave his face, though he stares straight ahead and does not seek out my gaze.

"I 'adn't known much 'appiness in recent years, so t'see 'er and 'er wee sister, runnin' so carefree, not a worry in the world, it awakened somethin' in me. That's what love should do, ye know?"

"No, I don't know," I whisper bashfully. "I haven't been around many boys, Finnick. I don't know anything about love."

"Then ye're in fer the greatest surprise of yer young life, lassie," he muses. "Love makes even the worst day bearable."

I clear my throat. "But losing her…was that not unbearable?"

"Aye." He closes his eyes, and silence prevails for several long minutes.

"I'm not sayin' love is easy er that it doesn't take work. Nay, Annie and me, we 'ad our obstacles. I worried 'er father wouldn't approve o'a hired 'and courtin' 'is little girl. The Crestas, they weren't wealthy, but they weren't peasants either. But I think they saw the 'appiness we brought t'each other, it made any difference 'tween us just disappear."

He takes a deep breath, a greedy draw of oxygen, and his voice cracks as he continues.

"I 'ad been savin' me wages, puttin' a wee bit aside each week t'ave enough t'buy 'er a ring. I was all ready t'ask 'er father fer 'er 'and in marriage." His voice is little more than a whisper now. "She 'ad the day off from 'er chores. It was early May, and she couldn't wait t'get t'the seashore. I told ye, Annie was a fish. She may 'ave been a farmer's daughter, but I swear she 'ad sailor's blood in 'er somewhere."

"Finn, you don't have to…" He shakes his head and holds his hand up.

"I need t', Katniss. 'Tis been awhile since I spoke o'er. Please listen." I nod mutely, and he continues.

"She and 'er sister got up early and packed a lunch and went t'the sea. There 'ad been a thunderstorm the night before, early in the season fer Scotland, but it must'ave churned up the sea somethin' fierce. Annie was a strong swimmer, but she went out a wee bit too far. The riptide caught 'er, and me Annie, she panicked. She tried t'swim free, but she just wasn't strong enough t'fight it. Her poor sister watched 'er disappear beneath the waves and never resurface."

My lower lips quivers and when I next blink, tears slip down my sunburned cheeks.

"Oh, Finn," I breathe, raising my aching body toward him. I slip my arms around him and hug him tightly in a fierce embrace, ignoring the searing pain from my sunburn as my shirt clings to my skin.

"Losing Annie was the greatest pain ye could ever imagine. I 'ope 'tis the worst pain I ever 'ave t'endure. But ye see, Katniss, 'ad I not loved 'er so passionately me loss wouldn't 'ave been so deep. So I keep remindin' myself that I am lucky, so, so lucky to 'ave known that kind'a love, even if 'twas taken away from me too soon."

"I'm so glad you told me, Finn. I know that wasn't easy. Thank you." He glances over at me and smiles wanly.

"Anything fer ye, lassie." He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. "Get some rest and let that aloe do 'tis magic. Ye'll feel a might better when ye go aloft fer watch later tonight."

My sunburn fades within a few days, and my skin transforms to a golden-brown. My chocolate tresses lighten as well, kissed with auburn streaks from the omnipresent sun. I slowly get used to the daily torture inflicted on my body, but it is one morning after holystoning the deck with Brutus that a whole new kind of pain paralyzes my back.

Having spent the better part of two hours on my hands and knees, when I finally rise to a standing position and stretch my spine, I have to clamp down on my lower lip with my teeth to keep from screaming. I bite so hard that I know when I finally release my lip there will be marks.

"Are you okay, Katniss?" Brutus asks me, shielding his eyes from the relentless sun as he studies me. I nod, eyes filled with tears, as a debilitating spasm seizes every muscle in my back. The pain is excruciating. He shakes his head.

"You're not okay," he chides me, scooping me into his massive arms and carrying me to the forecastle.

"Our watch isn't over," I wheeze in protest, sucking a breath through my teeth and struggling to sit up as he deposits me onto my hammock. His beefy arms hold me down and I am too weak to fight him.

"I'll take care of it. You probably wrenched your back. It happens to all of us. It will loosen up if you rest."

"But Captain Snow-"

"He won't be out until at least the start of afternoon watch, and by then we'll be off duty. I've got your back, Katniss." I smile wryly at his pun, intended or not.

"Thanks, Brutus," I reply. He winks at me and draws the curtain closed.

"I did not know the human body could withstand such pain," I groan aloud to myself, curling onto my side in the hammock and closing my eyes tightly. I cannot imagine the unbearable torture Mr. Boggs must have felt losing his arm or the agony Cinna must have endured while being lashed. This pain is torture.

I must fall asleep soundly (or perhaps I passed out, I consider later) because the next conscious thought I have is my name being called softly.

"Huh?" I roll over onto my back, the shooting twinges of pain gone, blessedly, but the ache in my muscles lingers.

"You, ah, didn't come for tea. I was worried," Peeta whispers, suddenly kneeling at my side, his handsome face close to mine. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine," I grit my teeth, "just a long morning holystoning the deck."

"Your back," he responds matter-of-factly. I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Yes, are you a mind reader now?"

"We've all been there. It's practically an initiation," he smiles. I now spy the tea cup in his hand. He sets it down on my trunk and hesitates before me.

"May I sit?" he asks politely. I nod and motion to the edge of my hammock, then I make a move to rise. Peeta shakes his head and licks his lips. My eyes are lured by the innocent gesture, and I stare at his mouth, transfixed.

"What?" I ask as he stares at me pointedly.

"I can make you feel better," he offers cautiously, "if you'll allow it."

"What do I need to allow?"I swallow thickly.

"I'll need to touch you."

Those five words that spill from his mouth send a ripple of desire through me. He needs to touch me? Where? And how? How can he heal me with his touch?

I may be confused by his offer, but God help me, I want his hands on me. I do.

He watches me in anticipation, waiting for my reply.

"Okay, I'll allow it," I murmur, hiding a smile that threatens to break out at the sight of Peeta's brilliant blue eyes gazing at me so intently, the grin that creeps onto his lips as I give him my assent.

"You'll need to turn onto your stomach," he instructs me gently. I hesitate then twist myself over, wincing, until I am lying prone. I fold my arms and lay my head against them, my chin resting on the backs of my palms. A strange cloud of unease and anticipation swirls in the pit of my belly.

Peeta cracks his knuckles and hovers over me.

My stomach nearly arcs up off the hammock as his fingers dance along the arch of my spine, feather-light touches along each vertebra. He then trails them up my sides, causing me to squirm at the ticklish sensation as I flatten my belly against the hammock again.

"Sorry," he whispers. My breath catches in my throat as his hands near the under-curve of my breasts, but he deftly works his fingers across my back and up along my shoulder blades instead.

"You can relax, Katniss." His lips are inches from the shell of my ear and his warm breath against the sensitive skin there shoots little bolts of electricity down my neck and along my arms. I must shudder visibly because Peeta laughs softly.

"You're too tense. This is supposed to be enjoyable. Just relax. Let me do the work." His tone is an elixir and I find my muscles slackening immediately.

I hiss when the pads of his fingertips and thumbs press hard against the knotted muscles of my upper back, working the flesh there by alternating light, gentle rubs and applying rough, almost painful pressure. The thin cotton of my shirt does little to stifle the heat of his touch, and I push away the sinful thought that I wish it were my bare skin he was touching.

Peeta kneads my muscles as skillfully as if I were a lump of dough and a moan escapes my lips as he works out a particularly painful knot below my left shoulder blade. He pulls back his hands and I raise my head in protest.

"No, no, please don't stop."

"Oh, okay," he stammers. "I just thought…I had hurt you…the sound you made…"

"It feels amazing. Keep going," I plea softly. He acquiesces and his fingers tread across the curve of my shoulders, easing towards my bare neck. The contact with my skin feels so unbelievably good that another quiet moan passes my lips. It spurs Peeta on, his thumbs pressing hard against the base of my skull, rubbing circles down to the nape of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair, raking his nails over my scalp.

He continues manipulating my skin and my muscles and with each new touch, my body comes alive. I am startled to find my breasts tingling and my nipples tightening. A fluttering in my stomach migrates south and floods the juncture between my thighs with wet heat. My mouth is dry as a bone and my breathing becomes shallow and erratic.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs and I realize with a start that his hands have slipped underneath my shirt. I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and bite my lip to smother a gasp.

"Yes," I manage to choke, wholly in awe of the sensations overwhelming me. His hands press into my skin forcefully, undoing another mass of knots just above my tailbone. His fingers dip just below the waistband of my trousers, but only for a fleeting moment. He then rolls his knuckles along the column of my spine and splays his hands outward.

It is then that he ventures too far with his left hand and brushes the side of my breast.

I whimper, louder than I intend to, and while it sends another gush of heat between my legs, the sound must alarm Peeta because his hands leave my back and slide out from under my shirt, and he jumps back. My chest heaves as I struggle to sit, facing him.

His own breathing appears as irregular as mine and crimson stains both his cheeks. He shifts and grimaces and turns from me hurriedly.

"I should go."

And before I can voice an objection, he is gone.

* * *

_A/N: I may not be on tumblr, but I would be remiss if I didn't thank everlarkrecs for her continued support of this story on her page. Thank you, my dear. _

_And FWIW, I must edit Finnick's brogue dialogues ten times any time he appears, but any small inconsistencies you might find are all mine. _


	11. Chapter 11

_**Author's Note: **_Thank you for your kind words and reviews for Chapter 10, especially concerning the prowess of Masseuse!Peeta. So glad so many of you want his hands on you too. Oh, if only...

I appreciate all the new follows and favorites as well, and I hope that you will enjoy this chapter.

As always, THG belongs to Suzanne Collins, and CD is all Avi's.

ILoveRynMar and Jeeno2...thank you, thank you. This chapter would not be the same without your insight.

* * *

Peeta effectively avoids me for the rest of the day. It is easy for him, initially, as I go on the first dog watch at four o'clock and by the time I arrive in mates' mess, supper has already been laid out and Peeta is nowhere in sight. I have but two hours rest before I am back on night watch. I should grab a quick nap, but sleep does not come easily. Every time I close my eyes, I picture those wide blue orbs and imagine his fingers still ghosting over my skin.

The next morning, I am irritable from a lack of sleep (and from Peeta's perplexing behavior). My watch assembles for breakfast early; we are due to work forenoon watch. I sit, sullen, dunking my hardtack repeatedly into a cup of coffee, yawning sporadically. Finnick and Haymitch flank me on either side while Brutus sits alone, eating quickly and then disappearing within minutes.

I am only half-listening to Haymitch relate some yarn about a legendary Spanish galleon. He and Finnick laugh amiably, and I think that they try to draw me into the conversation several times, but their efforts are met with little more than nods and grunts from me.

"Rough night, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks when I yawn three more times successively.

"You could say that." I yawn again. When both men fix me with curious stares, I furrow my brows and plunge the hardtack into my coffee. "I didn't sleep well," I reply darkly. They trade a glance, and I narrow my eyes.

"What?"

"Nothin,'" Finnick drawls. I slump further into the chair, but suddenly Peeta slips into the mess, bearing more coffee. I sit up a little straighter, fingers subconsciously drifting to my knotted hair to comb its gnarled strands as best I can. I stare at him pointedly, willing him to meet my gaze.

He never once looks in my direction, setting down the new pot of coffee and grabbing the old one. I pull my lower lip between my teeth to keep it from trembling, and I blink rapidly to ward off the tears that are welling behind my eyes. I am despondent and confused.

_What did I do wrong? _

In my distracted state, my melancholy causes me to dunk the hardtack a little too far and my fingers dip into my hot coffee, scalding me.

"Dammit," I mutter, pulling my fingers from the cup quickly, making a fist and blowing on it in a vain attempt to cool the burn.

"D'me ears deceive me? Did our wee lassie just swear?" Finnick laughs.

"The coffee. It's hot," I reply flatly, my eyes still fastened on Peeta. He busies himself at the table, his back to us, and within moments, he leaves without ever having glanced at me.

"What's with you and Golden Boy?"

"What? Who?" I snap, turning my attention to Haymitch, who is smirking at me. Finnick chuckles easily.

"Mellark," he supplies. "Or should I say Peeta," he adds mischievously, those eyes twinkling.

"There's nothing with us," I sputter angrily.

"Didn't look like nothin.' You were staring at him like he was an oasis in the middle of a desert," Haymitch snorts.

"Do you even know what that means?" I glower at him. He ignores my taunt.

"And he didn't so much as bat one of his pretty eyelashes at you. What did ya do to him?" Haymitch probes.

"I don't know," I mutter sullenly.

"What 'appened, lassie?" Finnick asks, more gently.

"Nothing happened!" I shriek, agitated. "One minute he was touching me…and then suddenly he wasn't touching me anymore!" I immediately clap a hand over my mouth, mortified at what I have just revealed. I also realize I did not make much sense, as both Finnick and Haymitch are giving me confounded looks. "I mean, he said he could make me feel better after I hurt my back holystoning the deck and so he was rubbing my back, loosening the muscles, you know…touching me…and then…" I babble incoherently before Haymitch holds up a hand and silences me.

"So he was giving you a massage?"

"If that's what you call it." My eyes slide from him to Finnick and back to Haymitch, and I find myself mildly annoyed by the amused expressions now on both men's faces.

"What?" I exclaim crossly.

"So 'e was givin' ye a massage, and then 'e just stopped?" Finnick prods. I bob my head slightly, remembering the whispering touch of Peeta's fingers against the curve of my breast and my cheeks flame.

"You're blushin,' sweetheart."

"Shut up, Haymitch," I snarl. It only widens his grin, which he promptly hides behind his coffee cup.

"Did ye like him touchin' ye?"

"Shut up, Finnick!"

"I'm serious, Katniss. T'is nothin' t'be ashamed o'if ye did," he continues softly. The heat in my cheeks rises as I close my eyes and savor the memory of the feel of his hands on me.

"Yes, I liked it," I murmur, lowering my eyes, shame mounting within me.

I know it is immoral to have such thoughts about a man outside the sanctity of marriage. Reverend Templesmith must have preached that a thousand times. I have just never had cause to engage in such questionable behavior before. And truth be told, I never expected it to be such a blissful experience, to stir such feelings in me. Why would something that feels so impossibly right be wrong, I wonder.

"And ye say Peeta just stopped?"

I nod again. "He was working out a knot in my back one minute and then he backed away and said he had to go the next. I don't think I did anything or said anything, but now he won't even look at me!" I purposely leave out the detail that Peeta touched my breast.

"Oh you did something alright," Haymitch snickers. Finnick shoots him a reproachful glare before leaning across the table, kind eyes on mine.

"Katniss, did ye feel somethin' when 'e touched ye?"

My body thrums, energy flowing through my limbs, remembering the wet heat that had pooled between my legs the more Peeta had kneaded my flesh and the intense spark I had felt when he accidentally grazed the side of my breast.

"Yes," I sigh, ignoring the continual taunts from my conscience about wickedness.

"Well," he begins slowly, cutting his eyes towards Haymitch, who sits silent but appears highly entertained. "Peeta prob'bly 'ad a similar reaction, lassie. But, uh, with us men, we, uh-"

"The boy got excited," Haymitch interjects. I raise my eyebrows at his bluntness, perplexed by his reply.

"I don't understand."

"You will," Haymitch snorts. I glare at him, then I turn to Finnick.

"What is he talking about?"

Finnick reaches over and pats my palm. "Ye're so innocent, Katniss. 'Tis sweet."

"What the hell, Finn!" I surprise myself with the ease with which the curse words are beginning to punctuate my speech.

"Easy, sweetheart." Haymitch downs the rest of his coffee and plunks his cup down on the table just as one bell chimes loudly, signaling our watch is about to commence.

"Won't one of you explain it to me, please? What happened? Why is Peeta avoiding me?"

"He's probably embarrassed," Haymitch calls over his shoulder as we ascend to the deck and are greeted with an impossibly blue sky, not a cloud overhead, and a sweltering sun.

"Why?"

It must be said that in all my knowledge of the male anatomy (which was minimal at this point) I knew even less of functionality. I knew what a naked male should look like (thanks be to Clove Simmons and her father's book) and I knew that…organ…of theirs impregnated a woman (thanks be to a completely awkward, incredibly brief lecture that Ms. Coin delivered each year at orientation, which never deviated, not one word, in all four times I heard it) but until I boarded _The Mockingjay_, I knew nothing of the correlation between pleasure and the body's response to it. Sexual intercourse as I understood it was to be an act reserved for marriage and designed for the sole purpose of procreation. It seemed impractical and impossible to derive any kind of enjoyment from it.

So I am wholly unprepared for Finnick's explanation as we swab the deck together.

He uses a few terms that bring a furious flush to my cheeks and for all my efforts, I cannot keep my usually dormant imagination from conjuring vivid pictures of Peeta in exactly such a state as he describes.

A state for which, according to Finn, I am responsible.

My mouth goes dry and the strange wet heat accumulates at the apex of my thighs again.

"What…does…I mean…what does he do about it?" I sputter, dragging the mop back and forth, my mind still reeling from the visual Finnick planted there.

"What d'ye mean?" he chortles, raising one eyebrow at me.

"How does he relieve it? I mean, does it just go away?"

"Aye, Katniss. It goes away when 'e's not aroused anymore." He sloshes more water around with each push of his mop then wrings it out and repeats.

I chew on my lip, wincing as my teeth catch on the chapped skin. "Aroused?"

"'Tis the way the body gets ready for sex, Katniss." My mop clatters to the deck, and gooseflesh prickles my arms. I consider the intense sensations that I experienced at the touch of Peeta's hands on me, and I shudder in spite of the sizzling sun as I bend down to retrieve my mop. Was that what my own body was trying to tell me? That I wanted to have sexual relations with Peeta? Is that why I feel as I do right now while picturing him?

"He wants to…?" I do not finish the thought. Finnick laughs again.

"Prob'bly, lassie. He's seventeen. And 'ave ye not seen the way 'e looks at ye? That boy adores ye." A warmth spreads through me, my heart swelling at the insinuation.

"You think so?" I whisper. I hear the hope in my voice and I know I sound like a lovesick school girl, like so many of the giggling dolts I scorned at Panem.

"I know so." He winks at me.

We finish our swabbing, regretfully, because I have so much more that I need to ask Finnick, and it is markedly easier to ask these private questions without Haymitch around. But alas, we part as Finnick goes aloft to tar the rigging and I clamor to the mainyard to reef a sail. I am halfway through the task when I hear Mr. Crane calling my name from the deck below.

"Miss Katniss!" Mr. Crane, whenever not in the immediate presence of the captain, refuses to address me as Mr. Everdeen. IHe always refers to me as 'Miss Katniss.' I sigh and grip the mast tightly, lunging my body outward so that he can see me among the sea of sails.

"Yes?"

"Scrape and repaint the figurehead, if you would, miss."

"Aye, aye, sir." I exhale loudly, the gesture blowing my bangs off my forehead. The figurehead had just been scraped and repainted yesterday. By me. And the day before that, as well.

Captain Snow has been true to his word: he treats me as one of the crew. Indeed, he seems to drive me harder than the others, and I know that he is waiting, like a cat about to pounce on a helpless mouse, for me to beg for mercy.

I do not.

Nor do I give him any reason to question my work. I complete every task to which I am assigned with punctilious detail. I push myself harder than he pushes me. I'm an excellent worker, if I may be permitted to brag. And to my complete shock, I enjoy most of what I do. It's an exhilirating feeling to be part of something, to be useful.

I descend to the deck quickly (how easy the climb up and down has become the more I attempt it!) and retreat to steerage, rummaging around to accumulate the necessary supplies to scrape and paint.

As I toil under the relentless rays of the late morning sun, my thoughts are like a stray bullet, ricocheting repeatedly through my brain without finding a target. I yearn to be able to discuss what happened yesterday with Peeta.

And I contemplate what Finnick confessed to me earlier.

It sends another thrill through me to think that I caused such a reaction in Peeta. I have never thought myself particularly pretty; my features are simple and plain, and after seeing the indecent pictures the sailors pin up around their hammocks, I know I am not buxom and curvy and womanly. If that is what men desire, I cannot imagine anyone would fancy me.

But Peeta does, it seems.

A silly smile plays on my lips.

I finish scraping the figurehead and prepare to paint, extending my body along the bowsprit until I am lying prone. I hum quietly to myself as I apply stroke after stroke of white paint to the gruesome bird. Thinking about Peeta buoys my mood and I cannot even become too distressed when I accidentally drop my brush into the frothing sea as a result of my distraction.

* * *

I do not have the opportunity to speak to Finnick alone for the rest of the day. I am resolved to ask him for a word in private later when our night watch ends. I have a million questions swirling in my head, and I need at least a few of them addressed.

Nevertheless, a different kind of inquiry arises that evening when we are resting in the forecastle, awaiting night watch.

"I 'eard the captain and Mr. Crane arguin' today," Finnick declares.

"In his cabin?" Brutus wonders.

"Aye, when I was at the wheel."

"The captain never seems to come out of there much anymore," I muse, rolling onto my side, trying to knead an aching muscle at the back of my calf. My own fingers are not nearly as therapeutic as Peeta's, I lament.

"That's because he's hidin' until that nasty little welt you gave him heals, sweetheart," Haymitch laughs bitterly. "I still can't believe you did that."

"I didn't mean-"

"He's not criticizing you, Katniss," Brutus interjects. "You've got nothing to apologize for. Each one of us'd done it if given the same chance."

"Maybe not Gloss. That fuckin' coward was too lily-livered to sign the round robin," Haymitch retorts.

"Any'ow," Finnick continues. "They were yellin' and cursin' pretty good."

"Mr. Crane seems a rational, albeit submissive, man," I say, thinking again of how he chooses to address me when the captain is present versus when he is not. He has always struck me as a perfectly kind man, a true gentleman.

But I was wrong about Captain Snow, so I do not place trust in my initial impressions anymore.

"Nah, he's completely loyal to Snow," Haymitch grumbles. "He's new to the sailing world and wants to make a good impression. He'd hang the goddamn moon if Snow asked him. So I wouldn't put much stock in anything you heard."

"I don't know, Haymitch. Mr. Crane hasn't seemed like he's in agreement with all that Captain Snow has done recently. He questioned a number of his orders the day the mutiny was squashed," I offer, because I am not inclined to blindly agree with Haymitch's assumptiom. Rather, I suspect that Mr. Crane has come to a similar conclusion that I did: the captain is an unnecessarily cruel man. The first mate seems to walk on eggshells around his master.

"All the same, somethin' ain't right," Finnick shakes his head. "The bastard was cruel before but 'e's drivin' us even 'arder now in spite o'Katniss 'ere comin' t'our rescue." I flush at his compliment, but truly, I do not feel like a heroine. If anything, the praise only compounds the guilt I still feel over being the cause of all this.

"He's pressing us because he can't control the weather. The lack of wind is eating away at him. He's desperate to complete this crossing in respectable time and maintain that stellar reputation of his," Brutus counters. Finn nods at the assessment.

But Haymitch shakes his head as he strikes a match and lights a cigarette. He tips his head back and slowly exhales, a curl of smoke snaking from his lips. "He's pressin' us because of you, sweetheart."

"What?" I exclaim.

"Don't think he's not watching you, Katniss," he warns, his voice low. "He may be laying low until that gash heals, but he knows every move you are makin' right now. He's waiting."

"For what?"

"You to make a mistake," he replies bluntly, drawing on his cigarette again.

"What kind of mistake can I make? I've followed every order he's given. Even when it's a ludicrous one, like today when he made me scrape and repaint the figurehead in spite of just doing it yesterday."

"Katniss, you humiliated him in front of all of us. No one challenges Snow's authority and gets away with it."

"How did I challenge his authority?" I ask, cringing as a cramp seizes my left foot. I work my fingers over the tense skin, pressing hard while once again wishing for Peeta's magic touch. "It was completely accidental that I struck him with the whip and to be fair, I was defending myself and-"

"Not just that," Haymitch cuts me short. "When you stood before him and pledged to join us. You mentioned your father."

"Of course I did," I answer smoothly, flexing my toes several times now that the cramp has abated. "But Captain Snow brought him up first."

"That may be true, but all the same, you said your father would support your actions. That challenged Snow's authority, whether you realized it or not."

"My father would indeed agree with my reasons. He is a man of upstanding character, and he believes in justice. He would have wanted me to own up to the error of my ways by making amends. This-" I gesture broadly at my surroundings, my crew mates,"-this was the least I could do."

"Admirable, sweetheart. But nonetheless, mark my words. The captain is sitting in those fancy quarters of his, spying on you, salivating over the chance to spring on any wrong move you make. One tiny slip and he will snatch the upper hand so fast your pretty little head will spin."

I roll over out of the hammock, rising to my feet, languidly stretching out the muscles in my back. I jut my chin in the air and shoot Haymitch a proud smile. "Too bad for the captain that I don't intend to slip up."

Haymitch tosses the smoldering remains of his cigarette to the floor and quickly grinds it out. He licks his lips and does not return the smile.

"Neither does he."

* * *

I begin night watch atop the foremast, my toes curling over the foot ropes, the slightest hint of a breeze ruffling my uncombed hair. I inhale slowly; I have come to crave the heady scent of the salty sea air. It fills me with a sense of freedom that I never imagined possible.

The sun is setting in the western sky, a bulging red disk sinking into the endless horizon. Its dying rays cast paths of gold, violet and pink along the water. I close my eyes and strain my back against the mast; I imagine this is what it feels like to fly. It is exhilarating.

I could not be further from the life that I have known for sixteen years.

It terrifies me that this is the happiest I have felt in a long time.

Four hours later, my watch ends, and I tread to the forecastle, physically exhausted, but wide awake.

The rest of the watch is sound asleep within minutes, and I can't help but notice that Peeta's hammock is also weighed down, his back to me, as I close the makeshift curtain around mine. I drag my fingers through my hair, combing it as best I can before rebraiding it into as neat a plait as I can manage, musing to myself what a far cry this new nighttime ritual is from the repeated strokes of the hairbrush I used to issue prior to going to bed each evening. What a waste of time that was!

After tossing and turning for what I think is two bells, I hurl myself out of my hammock and pace restlessly about my enclosed little space. I know I should be tired. I have barely slept in the past thirty-six hours. But my body is strung taut. Every nerve feels as it could be plucked like a harp string. And I try as I might, I cannot prevent my mind from wandering to the blond sailor who sleeps just several yards away from me.

I crave a release I cannot explain.

Frustrated, I quietly draw back the curtain and tiptoe through the darkened room, the muted flicker of a lantern the only light to guide my steps. I glance quickly at Peeta, his muscled frame hunched over in sleep, his back rising and falling in rhythm with his measured breaths. I swallow reflexively and slip out into the inky night.

Without thinking, I climb the forecastle deck and linger at the quarterdeck rail just above the bowsprit. I lean against it, resting my chin in my hands as I watch the moon-kissed waves sparkle below me. The quiet, rushing sound is a lullaby, relaxing me and soothing my tense nerves.

I do not know how much time passes, how long I stand there pensive and alone, but I am so lost in thought that I never even hear his footsteps approaching me. It is his voice that startles me from my reverie.

"Beautiful night."

They are the first words he has spoken to me since last evening. I whirl about, my back against the rail. The moonlight bathes his skin in a blue glow, like some kind of ethereal being.

"I believe you owe me a star-gazing session," he whispers, taking several steps towards me, a shy smile on his handsome face.

"What are you doing here?" I accuse, immediately regretting the hostile tone that I hear in my voice. I do not mean for it to sound so harsh. But he definitely hears it too because he moves away from the rail as if it is aflame.

"I don't have to be here if you don't want me to," he answers, his own voice is thick with hurt. A tug at my heart scolds me.

"No!" I reach out and grab his elbow, stopping him from retreating any further. "No," I repeat softly, pleadingly. "I want you to be here. I just meant I am surprised you are here. You, ah, you should be sleeping."

"So should you," he counters. "This is not your watch."

"I could not sleep," I confess. "I had a lot on my mind." _You_, I think, heat spreading through my veins at the scandalous thoughts I was having lying awake in my hammock. _You are always on my mind._

"Well let's see if we can't remedy that. You want to look at some stars? That always clears my mind."

"Okay," I murmur, my breath catching as my body becomes attuned to his, so close to mine as he settles back against the railing.

"Did you have the chance to do any sky-watching at school?"

I am glad that it is dark so that he cannot see me blush. "Not really," I confess. "We had curfew, so it was rare I was out late enough to get a good look at the stars." My heart is thumping so loudly in my chest that I swear he must be able to hear it. "Do you? Look at the stars a lot, I mean?"

"Yes, I've always enjoyed astronomy. The night sky is like one big mystery waiting to be solved."

"That's an interesting way of putting it," I muse, sweeping my eyes across the speckled heavens. He manages to make even the simplest of activities, looking up at the stars, sound poetic.

"Everything up there tells a story, Katniss," he adds. "Like that constellation right above us? See the pattern the stars make?" He directs me where to train my eyes, and my gaze follows his description, but I cannot discern anything other than winking lights in a field of murky black.

"That's Sagittarius, the archer," he continues.

"That's an archer?" I retort critically. "It looks more like a teapot." He chuckles, a wonderful throaty laugh that reverberates around us.

"Good eye. That cluster of stars is an asterism. It's a small group of stars in a larger constellation. And that's all that most people are able to recognize of Sagittarius." He pauses. "Anyway, the archer is actually Chiron, the centaur-"

"Centaurs were half-horse. How could a beast like that be an acclaimed archer?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Peeta laughs again.

"Did you interrupt your teachers this much at your school?" Again, the velvety night conceals my furious blush.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm teasing you, Katniss. Friends do joke with one another."

Is that all that he thinks we are? Friends? Do friends touch each other the way he touched me yesterday? I shake off the thought.

"Go on with your story. Please."

"Chiron was a centaur, yes, but you have to remember the ancient Greeks revered their horses. So centaurs were usually blessed with intelligence and Chiron was no exception. He taught Achilles and Heracles."

"Hercules?"

"Heracles. His Greek name. Hercules is the Roman equivalent."

"I wasn't aware there was a difference."

"There isn't really," he laughs quietly. "The Greeks and Romans both wanted things their way, that's all."

"How do you know all this?" I whisper, slightly in awe of him. I study his perfect profile in the moonlight. This man himself is a mystery.

"I told you I can read. I read a lot," he replies cryptically. "Anyhow, Sagittarius represents Chiron. He was immortal, but he graciously agreed to give up that immortality and change places with Prometheus-"

"Prometheus. He created Pandora, yes?" _Shit_, I think to myself, half-amused that I am swearing even in my head now, half-irritated at myself for interrupting yet again.

"Yes, he did," he smiles. "But when he took Prometheus's place in Tartarus, Zeus was so moved he placed Chiron in the heavens as a reward for his constancy."

"That's nice," I murmur absently, chiding myself for sounding so blasé.

"_This_ is nice," he replies back, his voice barely audible. His fingers seek out mine in the darkness and he weaves them through mine, causing my pulse to quicken at the innocent contact. I swallow.

"I'm sorry I ran away yesterday," he coughs and begins drawing circles against the back of my palm with his thumb.

"I was worried I had done something wrong," I confess, my voice thick in my throat.

"You did nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, actually." His tone sends a frisson of delight snaking down my spine, raising goose bumps along my limbs.

Heat lightning throbs in the distance, staccato yellow flashes on the distant horizon. I wait for the tell-tale reply of thunder, but it never comes. The moon scuttles behind shadowy clouds, and it is several moments before it reappears.

"Tell me another story?" It is the only thing I can think to say to break the heavy silence between us. He clears his throat quietly.

"There is one I have in mind," he starts huskily, "but I yet don't know how it ends." He steps away from the rail, my fingers still linked with his, and his other hand reaches forward to brush my hair off my forehead, tucking the strands that have escaped my braid behind my ear. His fingers remain there for a minute, trailing down my jaw and coming to rest on my chin.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he murmurs softly. A gasp escapes my lips just before he uses his index finger to lift my chin. Peeta's mouth presses to mine, gently, hesitantly, sweetly. He draws back, searching my face for permission to continue.

I don't grant him a reply. At least not a verbal one. I clasp my hands behind his neck and stretch up on my toes, crushing my body against his as I clumsily slant my mouth up, begging him to possess it again.

He does not disappoint.

His mouth moves against mine eagerly and I desperately try to mimic his movements, hopeful that my woeful inexperience does not dissuade him.

It is my first kiss. As Peeta's lips dance over mine, capturing them over and over again, I am consumed by the notion that I have ever lived without this kind of contact, this emotional connection with another. His embrace is intoxicating and I know that I will never be able to get enough of it.

I cry out when his lips leave mine, my hands clutching at his shoulders to keep my legs from buckling beneath me.

"Why did you stop?" I pant, my breath coming in short gasps. He stares down at me, and even in the faint moonlight, I can see that his pupils are dilated and glazed with desire. I feel that twinge between my legs again and I want his hands on me so badly that I am shaking.

"I wasn't sure if I was overstepping my bounds," he whispers, dragging the pad of his thumb along the swell of my lower lip.

"Kiss me again," I beg. "Please."

He wastes no time in claiming my lips once more, his strong hands framing my face, cupping my cheeks tenderly. A strangled moan escapes me as he tilts my jaw to kiss me from a new angle, and it is followed by a sharp gasp as his tongue darts out to trace the seam of my lips. I am rewarded with a deep groan of his own when I hesitantly part my lips and his tongue finds the entrance it was so desperately seeking.

If I thought the sensation of his mouth on mine was intense, I am inundated with waves of pleasure when his tongue begins to gently probe the depths of my mouth, twining with my tongue in an erotic dance. I cling to him, my fingers weaving into his blond hair as his hands find purchase on my hips, drawing me flush against his body.

The meager fabric of our sailors' garb does little to disguise the reactions both our bodies are having. At first, in spite of Finnick's meticulous explanations, I am startled by the feel of his hardness against me. He shifts several times in what I can guess is a half-hearted attempt to disguise his erection, but the longer we kiss, the less he tries to hide it. It presses insistently against me. Once I get past my initial embarrassment, strangely it actually emboldens me, knowing I have caused such a stirring in him. Knowing he wants me this visibly.

I mewl as he breaks the kiss again, but his lips descend to press a heated path along the column of my throat, my head instinctively tilting back to grant him easier access. His tongue laves the skin at the hollow there, then licks along my collarbone, and a shudder convulses through me. That increasingly-more-familiar tightening coils in my belly again. My back arches, crushing my breasts against his chest, and I know he must feel my nipples, hard pebbles against the lightweight cotton.

"I have wanted to do this from the first moment I saw you," he rasps against my ear, his teeth grazing my lobe lazily. "But we should stop."

"What? No!" My protest is immediate and it earns another laugh from Peeta.

"I didn't say I wanted to stop, Katniss. I said we _should_ stop."

"Why?"

"We shouldn't be out here too long. It's late, you have morning watch in a few hours, and I would hate to be the one responsible for your lack of sleep." He kisses the tip of my nose.

"I am a big girl, Mr. Mellark," I reply coyly. "I think I can make my own decisions." He chuckles softly and reaches for my braid, sliding the length of it through his fingers.

"Duly noted, Miss Everdeen" His lips are on mine again in an instant, and the thrilling sensation stirs once more in the pit of my belly. His mouth is pliant, surprisingly soft in spite of his chapped lips and his kisses ignite me.

And in this moment, I want nothing more than to let Peeta's fire completely engulf me.

His hands skim along my sides, one finding the small of my back while the other cradles my neck gently. We both gasp for breath in between kisses, and I surprise myself by parting my lips first and coaxing his tongue into the wet heat of my mouth. He groans. The sound of it is so delicious that I want to hear it again and again.

"Okay, this time we really have to stop," he pants, holding me at arms' length. His lips are puffy and his eyes are ravenous, but his tone is firm.

"Okay," I agree reluctantly, my voice barely audible as I try to regulate my breathing again and get my brain to return to logical thoughts.

"That was your first kiss? First kisses, I mean," he asks gently, but it is not really a question. I lower my eyes and nod.

"You are indeed a quick learner," he teases, threading his fingers through mine and swinging our arms faintly between us. "Because I have never enjoyed a kiss as much as I enjoyed kissing you."

I freeze and immediately release his hand. My chest constricts and I frown. "How many others have you kissed?"

His eyes scold me. "Oh, Katniss. Please tell me you're not thinking of that after we what just shared."

I worry my lower lip. That is exactly what I am thinking. It's irrational, and I have only just met this amazing young man, but I find myself filled with a touch of what Shakespeare (a frequent name in my pilfered literature pile) called "the green-eyed monster."

Peeta envelops me in his arms again and my body stiffens. He brushes his thumbs over my cheeks and cradles my jaw with his fingertips.

"I may have kissed a few girls," he confesses, "but I have never felt the things I felt just now. I promise you that. And I'll tell you that it scares me a little."

"It scares me lot," I reply shakily. "I did not think it was possible to feel this way about another person."

"Then I guess we can be terrified together," he smiles as he cocks his head slightly and motions towards the forecastle steps. "Come on. You need to get to sleep." I follow his lead, clutching his hand tightly as we slowly return to the forecastle.

He pauses at the door and seizes my mouth in a quick but fierce embrace.

"I meant what I said, Katniss. And if I have anything to say about it, I'm going to be kissing you a lot more from now on." He presses his lips to my forehead and lets them linger there for several seconds.

"Good night, Katniss. Sweet dreams," he whispers, slipping inside the forecastle door, leaving me to slump, breathless, against the wall just outside it, my fingers probing my own swollen lips, a ridiculously wide smile spreading across them.

"Good night, Peeta."

* * *

_A/N: I hope the star-gazing did not disappoint! And it's been years since I've gotten to teach mythology, though I taught the Solar System as recently as last year, so I hope my myths were accurate. Please let me know what you thought; I love to hear from readers._

_For those who are not aware, I have a new WIP that I posted last week: Windfall (yeah, what is it with me and wind?)...that story will not affect this one's updates; as I've said before, this story is entirely written. But I hope you'll consider checking my new one out too! _

_Thanks for reading!_


	12. Chapter 12

_**Author's**** Note-** _Thank you for your kind words and sweet comments about that last chapter. I was very nervous as to how their first kisses would go over, since we are really in slow-burn territory in this story (having such a naive, virginal narrator is kind of a natural c*ckblock, huh?) but I am really excited so many of you thought that scene was still sexy. :)

For those of you who have been waiting, we are about to learn all there is to know about Sailor!Peeta. I hope it meets your expectations.

THG belongs to Suzanne Collins, CD is the property of Avi, and ILoveRynMar and Jeeno2 are my muses. Thank you, my lovely ladies.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Someone is a lot 'appier this mornin,' eh lassie?" Finnick elbows me, his emerald eyes alight with mischief. I narrow my eyes at him, a rosy pink immediately coloring my cheeks as we make our way to mates' mess after morning watch.

Truth is, I am deliriously happy, albeit exhausted. After I collapsed into my hammock last night, I had lain awake, unable to find the slumber my tired body so greatly yearned for. I could not stop replaying my kisses with Peeta in my mind; each time my eyes began to flutter closed, his handsome face would swim through my vision. It would awaken my senses again and the whole cycle began anew. I could not control my body's response to anything remotely connected to the beautiful blond sailor.

"Ye're blushing," Finnick teases, startling me from my daydream.

"Shut up," I mutter, cramming a lump of hardtack into my mouth.

Peeta does not appear while we are eating our meager breakfast, so I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve after gulping down the last of my coffee. (Take that, Miss Trinket!) Glancing around the mess, I notice Brutus has already departed and Haymitch is discreetly trying to pour an amber liquid into his coffee. I give Finnick a pointed look and rise from the table.

"Goin' somewhere?" he drawls.

"I'm tired. I'll be in my hammock."

I scurry to the forecastle and hastily draw the sails together, though I do not go behind them. Brutus does not so much as glance up from his own hammock, and I smile conspiratorially to myself as I rush from the room, satisfied that it appears I am asleep in the confides of my private space.

My destination is the galley.

Peeta's back is to me as I arrive in the doorway, and I loiter for a few moments to build my confidence before I steal across the tiny space to press my body along the length of his back, sneaking my hands under his arms to cover his eyes. I can feel the tiny muscles in his cheeks twitch upward as he smiles against my palms.

"Guess who?" I murmur, my heart racing. The way I am behaving is so completely foreign, but it's alarming how easily it has come to me, how giddy I feel in this man's presence.

"If it's Finnick, I am going to be sorely disappointed."

I stifle a giggle as he swivels around and those penetrating blue eyes sweep over me.

"Hi," he whispers, his breath tickling my nose as he descends on my mouth.

"Hi," I mumble back, pressing my lips to his. I am disappointed when he draws back after only a few moments. He must sense this because he cups my cheeks in his strong hands and glides his thumbs along my jaw as he gives me a second slow, sensual kiss. My lower half throbs in anticipation, responding quickly to his embrace, and a moan is swallowed by his willing mouth.

I can't get enough of this man.

"As much as I would like to continue this all morning, Katniss, you can't be here doing this," he chides softly. "I would never forgive myself if I were the cause of you getting into trouble."

"We are not doing anything wrong, are we? It is not my watch, and I'd rather be in here with you than resting in the forecastle."

"You've heard the crew. Captain Snow is watching you."

"I do not care what Captain Snow thinks," I reply haughtily.

"You should, though," he sighs. "I am afraid for you, Katniss." He leads me to the small table in the center of the galley and guides me to sit. Since the stools are bolted to the floor, he cannot sit beside me, but instead he takes both my hands between his across the table.

"Captain Snow is a vicious, brutal man. You've seen it for yourself now. I worry that if the crew is correct and he is waiting for you to make a mistake…" he trails off, his voice tight, his thumb absently drawing idle paths across the back of my palm.

"I won't make a mistake," I return.

"We all make mistakes, Katniss. It's human nature," he replies, his eyes drifting from mine, and he stares off into space. He is just a few feet from me, but the distance suddenly feels like a chasm.

"You're not just talking about me anymore, are you?" I say after several moments in contemplative silence. A sad smile creases his face and he settles his gaze back on me.

He finally speaks. "I shouldn't burden you with the weight of my past."

I shift our hands so that mine are supporting his, and I squeeze them lightly. "What if I want you to?" The silence returns, and we sit, staring at each other for what seems like an eternity before he clears his throat and begins.

"I hope you know that I have fallen for you, Miss Everdeen," he confesses, his eyes somber as he studies me. The intensity in them sends a wave of desire through me, and I squirm in my seat. "Fallen for you hard."

A sudden crack of pain hammers at my heart.

"That is not the mistake you speak of, is it?" I stammer, swallowing hard. Peeta's eyes enlarge and he shakes his head vehemently.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, Katniss. How could you even think that?"

"I don't know," I whisper honestly, withdrawing my hands and lowering them to my lap. He leans forward on his elbows, reaching for my cheek, which I lay against his warm palm.

"If the decisions-the mistakes-I made in the past led me here to this damned ship where our paths crossed, how could I truly regret any of them?" He pauses. "But I think it's only fair that given where things stand between us, I owe you an explanation to why I'm here."

"Okay," I nod, trepidation mounting in me. My stomach is a knotted mass of anticipation, nerves and curiosity. He takes a deep breath.

"I grew up in Boston. As far as I know, my family still resides there. I was…am…the youngest. I had…have…two older brothers…" He heaves a weighty sigh and rubs his hands over his face. "I'm sorry. I don't quite know how to speak of them. I guess I just need to assume all is as I left it and my parents and brothers are still alive and well, so…"

"It's okay, Peeta." His visage is so clouded with pain and regret that my heart aches for him. "You don't have to tell me. I understand."

"I want to," he replies fiercely, straightening on his stool. "I want to," he repeats firmly, his eyes flashing. "I trust you, Katniss. I want you to know me."

"Go on then," I coax. "I want to know you, too, Peeta Mellark."

"My childhood was good enough, I guess. I mean, my father is a kind man, and he loved the three of us equally. My mother, on the other hand…she was…she comes from old money. Her father was a Puritan who had helped settled the Massachusetts Bay colony and she never let anyone forget her lineage.

"I always suspected she wished I had been a girl. She was never particularly nice to me, or my brother, William. He is in the middle. To my mother, the sun rose and set in the firstborn. That would be my brother, Thomas. He could do no wrong, and everything she did revolved around planning for Thomas's future. Will and I were just afterthoughts." He sighs and rakes a hand through his messy curls.

"Okay, so I'll ask now, _Peeta_." I emphasize his name, trying to lighten the mood a little. "How did you come to get such an odd name when your brothers have such typical English monikers?"

"It's a nickname," he smiles sadly. "Will couldn't say his "r's" til he was nearly eight. Peeta, he called me, instead of my proper name, Peter. My father and Thomas kind of picked up on it, teasingly at first, but I rather liked it. It made me stick out, made me unique, which as the youngest, I was desperate to do."

"I like it too," I smile shyly. He rewards me with a broader grin.

"Anyway, my father was a baker. He had learned from his father, and when my grandfather passed, the family bakery became ours. My father was a magician with dough. I spent hours watching him at work, kneading it, pounding it, shaping it into the most interesting variations." My mind immediately thinks of Peeta's gentle hands on my back, working my flesh as if it had been dough. No wonder his touch is so expert and so perfect.

"I knew from the time I was five that I wanted nothing more than to be just like him. I wanted to grow up to be Mr. Mellark, the man who all the children of Boston adored, who snuck cookies into their hands when their strict mothers weren't looking. Just like him." He punctuates those three words, sorrow etched in his voice. My lips curve into a sympathetic smile as I bring my hands above the table once more and reach for him. Our fingers knit and the warmth that spreads through the digits steadies us both. He continues.

"It was not to be. That's the curse of the third-born son." His voice wavers, and his eyes are suddenly distant and sad. "Thomas was apprenticed to our father, and it was made patently clear to Will and to me that _Mellark & Son_ would never be expanded to _Mellark & Sons, _in the plural sense."

"Oh, Peeta," I choke, his pain washing over me in waves. "Why not? Why couldn't your father have had all three of you in the business?"

"I think he would have welcomed it. Loved it. But my mother," he replies dryly, "my mother would hear nothing of it. She was overly concerned with social connections, and she had plans for Will and me."

"What plans?" I whisper. Peeta sighs.

"The local minister had two daughters. They did very well for themselves. And they owned a great deal of land. My mother had her eye on the elder daughter as Will's future bride. But to properly court her, Will needed to secure a prestigious job, a good future, since he was not the eldest in our family and would not inherit the business from our father. Mother sent him off to Harvard to get his law degree. Will hated the idea, and he complained day and night to me about it, but when it came time to go, he did not put up a fight."

He lowers his eyes. "It has been nearly four years since I last saw him. He could be married by now, perhaps even with a child."

"What about you?"

"Right about when Will was sent off to school, when I was nearly fourteen, she arranged to have me apprenticed to the local shoemaker."

"Shoemaking?" I interject, wrinkling my nose in distaste.

"Yes, shoemaking," he cringes. "It was the last thing on earth that I wanted to do. But like the obedient son that I was, I wallowed for two years with that shoemaker."

"Shoemaking isn't even that profitable," I sputter in disbelief. He smiles ruefully.

"She wasn't thinking of the business. Old money again. The shoemaker-Cartwright was his name-his wife's family was exceedingly wealthy. She was an only child, and they were only blessed with one child too. A daughter, Delilah."

Realization strikes me like a mallet between the eyes.

"This Delilah. You were expected to court her and wed her one day, weren't you?"

"Precisely," Peeta nods. "She would inherit everything from her parents, but since a woman could not own land or businesses, by default, it would be mine.

"And Delly, that's what she liked to be called, she was hardly the kind of woman I could see myself spending an eternity with. She was petulant and spoiled and mean-spirited." He heaves another sigh. "She was my mother."

"So how did you break it to them? Your parents? The Cartwrights?" Peeta reddens and looks away, his clear blue eyes leaden with guilt.

"I didn't," he whispers. "But I just couldn't be someone I wasn't anymore." He pauses again and draws in a long, shaky breath. "So I ran away. No note, no explanation of any kind." His lower lip twitches.

"Oh, Peeta," I murmur, springing up from my stool and wrapping my arms around him from behind, resting my chin on his broad shoulder. I caress the nape of his neck gently, feeling his skin prickle into gooseflesh under my touch.

"It was wrong, Katniss. I was cowardly."

"No. No, Peeta, you weren't."

"I was," he affirms, rising from his seat so abruptly that I stumble back a few steps. He paces around the tiny room, and I shrink back against the wall to give him space. "I was wrong not to tell them why I was leaving." He stops his frantic movement around the galley and comes to stop in front of me, grabbing my hands, bringing them to his chest.

"I meant what I said before. I do not regret anything that has brought me here. Even if all we have is these two months, Katniss-"

I firmly press a finger to his lips. "Don't say that." Because already I am feeling swells of panic at the thought of having to part from him and his words lend a harsh realism to it.

"My family has no idea where I am, Katniss. If I am safe…if I am dead…I think of the anguish I must have caused them, and for that, I will always be sorry. I was selfish." He shakes his head. "I just knew the life my mother had planned out for me was not one I was willing to live. Because it wouldn't have been living. I'd rather labor and toil here and feel part of this queer little brotherhood than be something that I am not and go through the motions until God decides to take me from this mortal earth."

"It makes perfect sense now," I say quietly, contemplating his words just now, so poetic are they.

"What does?"

"Oh, lots of things. You being able to read. Snow's accusation of you being a privileged pretty boy…the way you occasionally speak around me. You sometimes slip into your old skin when it is just the two of us." I pause, quelling the urge to reach out and ravage his lips with mine. "Does the crew know about your background?"

"Yes," he nods. "They all know. Last summer…on the same voyage where Boggs lost his arm, Captain Snow had me lashed for accidentally dropping a bucket of paint into the sea when I was touching up the figurehead-" I cannot help but think of my lost paintbrush this morning and I swallow nervously- "and in issuing my punishment, he ranted about me wasting precious commodities in front of the entire crew. Said I was spoiled and did not know the value of anything."

"Do you enjoy sailing?" I ask impulsively, changing the subject, because speaking of Captain Snow sours my mood.

"I do not dislike it," he says slowly. "I certainly dislike working for Captain Snow. But I do not intend to sail for long, Katniss." A spark glints in his eyes, and his countenance alters immediately, his face alight with excitement. "I live simply right now. I am saving most of what I earn at sea." He takes a step towards me, backing me flush against the wall; he then braces one hand on the wood above my right shoulder. His face is inches from mine, and I shiver with anticipation as his eyes darken imperceptibly and I feel his warm breath skate across my cheek.

"Would you like to know what I'm saving for?"

"If you wish to tell me," I whisper as my heart picks up its pace.

"A bakery," he confesses, his free hand twists a stray lock of my hair around his index finger, and I cannot contain my own smile at the brilliant grin that lifts his mouth. "A bakery of my own. It is all that I ever wanted." He pauses. "Until I met you, that is."

My tongue darts out to moisten my lips just as Peeta closes the small distance between our mouths. With simultaneous moans, our lips wrestle for dominance, and I grow bolder with my tongue when I feel Peeta stir against me. His weight pins me to the wall, but it is a delectable sensation being possessed in such a manner as he devours me with his kisses.

Three bells ring out above us on deck, and Peeta reluctantly draws back. My lips tingle from being so thoroughly kissed, and my body instantly laments the absence of his touch. The dull ache in my abdomen does not subside either, and I pout, earning a low laugh from Peeta.

"Don't tempt me with those lips, Miss Everdeen," he chides.

"It is your fault, Mr. Mellark," I shoot back. "If you weren't such a good kisser, perhaps I would not be so insatiable."

He chuckles softly. "I might have lied earlier when I said I had no regrets."

"Oh?"

"I regret not kissing you that first day when I had you alone in top cargo."

"I would have slapped you," I reply matter-of-factly, earning another chuckle from him. "Besides, I know you could not have been anything other than a perfect gentleman, and that's why even last night, you had to ask my permission to kiss me."

"Ah, but I didn't really ask permission. I just gave you the courtesy of a warning that I was going to kiss you. You could have resisted."

"Never," I whisper.

"How is it you already know me so well?" he murmurs, clasping his arms around my waist, linking his hands together at the small of my back as he presses feathery kisses along the curve of my jaw.

"I told you I am a fast learner."

His lips find my neck, and I gasp as he alternates licking and nipping a path up towards my right ear. That dull ache begins to build in my belly anew, tightening the muscles into a heated spiral. I tilt my head just slightly enough so my mouth is in line with Peeta's ear as he gently drags his tongue along my clavicle. "And you are a good teacher," I murmur. The compliment earns me a lusty moan from him.

"We'll have to schedule another lesson soon then. But now, I think it's best you really go get some rest."

I sigh, but I agree. I take his hands in mine and give him a demure smile.

"Thank you for confiding in me, Peeta. It means a lot to me that you shared your dream with me."

"I could thank you equally, Katniss. For listening with an open mind, for not judging me…it felt good to talk."

"It felt better to kiss," I reply. But it is the truth. Peeta has awakened something in me, and I can say with certainty I do not wish for it to go dormant any time soon.

He laughs. "Go. I shall see you later."

But he holds me in place with those hypnotic blue eyes.

"I'll go when you stop looking at me as if I am your next meal," I tease.

"Go before you are," he declares boldly. I draw my lower lip between my teeth to keep it from trembling at the insinuation, and with one last glance, I scamper back to the forecastle. Brutus's eyes open as I sneak in, and he gives me a surprised glance before closing his eyes again.

I curl into my hammock and drift off into an easy sleep, Peeta the last word on my slack lips as I doze.

* * *

The next morning, near the end of forenoon watch, Captain Snow seizes his opportunity to see me falter.

I am aloft, reefing a topsail when I hear a loud snapping sound. I freeze, unsure from where it came. I am confident the sound was not splintering wood, so it likely cannot be a mast or spar. The more plausible culprit is a torn sail.

"Haymitch!" I call down, knowing the grumpy sailor is at the wheel. "What was that?"

"Damned if I know, sweetheart!" he yells back. "Can you see anything from where you are?"

I glance around. Below me I see Captain Snow approach the wheel; Gloss (I find it difficult to add the _Mister _before it) is beside him.

"The flying jib is tangled. The bowsprit needs to be repaired. Now." I see Haymitch grip the wheel; he seems surprised that Snow himself has issued an order.

"Aye, sir."

"Not you. Where's Mr. Everdeen?"

I suck in a deep breath, steadying myself on the spar.

"_She_ is aloft," Haymitch retorts. "Doing the job_ she_ was assigned." He places careful emphasis on his choice of pronouns.

"Mr. Everdeen! Get you down and free that jib. Now."

My pulse accelerates as I nimbly descend to the deck, but as I jump down, Haymitch places a firm hand on my shoulder.

"I'll fix it," he declares. Snow's eyes narrow to slits as a cruel smile tugs at his lips.

"The order was given to Mr. Everdeen. Does he refuse a lawful order?" His eyes gleam wickedly, and I can tell he is savoring the chance to punish me if I refuse. Since I heard the word, I fear keelhauling more than anything else. I glance up at Haymitch, whose grey eyes are leaden with worry.

"No," I reply calmly but firmly. And before I lose my nerve, I make a dash for the forecastle deck to the knighthead and spryly mount the bowsprit. Haymitch is beneath me in an instant.

"Who is at the wheel?" I call down. "I don't want you to get into trouble!"

"Brutus. Don't worry. Take this," he urges, extending his arm up to offer me a splicing knife. I accept it and clamp it between my teeth, curling my toes around the bowsprit. My stomach flips as I estimate the distance I will need to walk to reach the tangled sail. I reach behind me, clutching the back rope, and I begin my tenuous tread.

"Remember, sweetheart, don't worry about the sail itself. Just cut the line. Cut it fast and it will free itself."

I nod, unable to voice any agreement with the knife between my teeth.

"And watch your timing!" he adds.

I realize what Haymitch is referring to the moment I get a few inches out on the bowsprit. The ship plunges wildly, and the rushing sea is just inches from my toes. It sends a fresh spray of sea water splashing at my bare feet and slicks the bowsprit more. The rolling waves in my stomach mirror those crashing beneath me. This is far more dangerous than painting the bowsprit, and we are in rougher waters than the ship has seen in days.

Holding my breath, I manage to reach the sail, and still gripping the back rope line tightly, I retrieve the knife from my mouth with quaking fingers. The tautness aids my cutting, and with a few quick hacks, the rope frays, the final strands releasing from their binding with a sharp crack. It sends the freed sail billowing away from me, but in its motion, it smacks into me. I stumble, and my slippery feet shoot out from under me. The knife flies from my hand, and I issue a terrified cry as I fall. My fingers claw desperately at the bowsprit and manage to hook themselves onto it, my body and feet dangling perilously above the heaving sea.

"Hold on, sweetheart!" Haymitch's yell cuts through the roar of the waves and the rush of the blood thundering in my ears. "I'll get Brutus to change course!"

The _Mockingjay_ dips again and I dip with it; I am plunged into the cold water, up to my chest. My grip slips, and I clench my eyes shut and pray.

Another dip. Another plunge. This time, I am completely submerged, and when I resurface, I sputter and choke on the seawater that clogs my throat. Tears begin to form, and I will them back.

I refuse to drown. I will not die this way.

Drawing all my strength, I swing my body, gaining momentum. I throw my legs upward, missing the bowsprit by just inches. Encouraged by this, I try again. As the ship rides a cresting wave and lurches upward, I aim for the bowsprit once more. My left leg hooks over first and I grunt, lugging the rest of my body up to straddle the bowsprit. I lay my body flush against it, coughing, trying to catch my breath.

The ship finally shifts into calmer waters. We bob gently now, and I finally begin to inch myself back along the bowsprit. Haymitch reappears above me.

"Come on, sweetheart. You did good!" I am too exhausted to lift my head, but when my foot finds purchase with the screaming bird's beak, I use it as a step stool and he gathers me into his arms, pulling me to safety.

"You did good, sweetheart, you did good," he repeats, clutching me and pulling my wet, knotted hair away from my face.

Captain Snow appears atop the quarterdeck and marches down the steps, stopping at the base of the stairs. His eyes are cold.

"Mister Everdeen, get over here," he yells.

I stand, shivering, teeth chattering in spite of the stifling morning sun, but Haymitch nudges me gently, nodding.

"You did just as you were asked. And you did it well. He has nothing to hold over you. Go on."

I untangle myself from his arms and cross the deck to stand before the captain. Brutus is indeed at the wheel. Both Gloss and Mr. Crane stand nearby. My heart lurches as I notice Peeta is there as well. Our eyes meet, but he looks away, red-faced and darts down the steps towards steerage. I do not have time to contemplate why because the captain proceeds to release his full ire on me.

"Mr. Everdeen, when I give an order, you are to complete it in a timely manner. Your ineptitude cost us valuable time, and as a result, Mr. Brutus was forced to change course to spare your worthless life."

Before I can offer an arguement in my defense, I am caught completely off-guard by my head snapping harshly to the left and a hot sting burning my cheek.

Captain Snow has struck me.

I have never, ever, _not once_ in my life been slapped. The indignity of the situation infuriates me.

How dare he! What kind of man would strike a girl?

"You're evil!" I scream, my hands forming tight fists at my sides. "You're nothing but a despicable, cruel villain!"

The captain advances upon me, his own face crimson with rage, but he is intercepted by Peeta.

"Katniss, shhh…" he murmurs, and it is then I notice he is holding a sail in his arms.

It is also at that moment a breeze causes me to shiver, and it dawns on me that I am standing in clothes that are completely saturated with seawater, and the dampness has rendered my blouse, for lack of a better word, transparent. Peeta keeps his gaze locked on my face as he wraps the tattered sail he has retrieved around me, shielding my nearly-topless form from the rest of the men's eyes.

The captain gives me a smug look. "Next time it will be more than a slap, Mr. Everdeen. You're not special." And he turns to walk away.

"You won't get away with this!" I shrill, freeing myself from Peeta's arms. He grabs my shoulders to prevent me from doing anything rash, but he cannot contain my mouth. "I cannot wait until we dock in Philadelphia! I'll go right to the admiralty courts. They'll believe me! They'll know my father's name. This is the last voyage you'll captain, _Mister_ Snow. And then the world will finally see you for what you are: a petty, malicious coward!"

There is a dangerous silence.

Peeta's fingers grip my shoulders tightly, and in spite of my trembling (which is more from the chill of standing in soaked clothes than any potential nerves) I feel empowered. I stand my ground.

No one can accuse me of being a pretty little girl in this moment.

Captain Snow and I glare at each other. Neither of us blinks, but his eyes are visibly murderous. His face has paled, making the angry welt more visible on his cheek.

Then he spins on his heel and walks away. Seconds later, his cabin door slams shut.

Most of the crew has crept onto deck to watch the scene. Not a word is uttered to me, and most disappear as quickly as they appeared. Peeta wraps his arms around me from behind and murmurs softly, "Let's get you into some dry clothes."

As we head toward the forecastle, Haymitch grabs my elbow.

"You and me, sweetheart, next watch off, we practice with knives."

"I thought I did well-" I stammer, a bit hurt by his insistent tone. He nods.

"You did great, I told you so," he affirms. "But there's more to a knife than just usin' it to cut lines." He shifts his eyes in the direction in which the captain stalked off.

"Okay," I reply uneasily, my teeth chattering anew.

"Get her cleaned up," Haymitch offers quietly, and Peeta nods, guiding me down to the forecastle.

Cato's watch is there, and I am eternally grateful to Peeta for covering me up when I realize these men would have seen nearly all of me too. Cato's and Marvel's leers already make me uneasy, though Chaff does not really pay me any mind and Mr. Thread is perpetually sullen as a result of his demotion. All four men feign innocence when they see my disheveled appearance.

"What happened to you?" Marvel sneers.

"A minor mishap on the bowsprit," I return curtly, crossing to my hammock. Peeta hesitates in the threshold, but he follows me, stopping just at the curtain leading to my private space.

"Are you certain you're okay?" he says softly, sincerity and concern in his voice and in his eyes. I nod. "I've got to get back to the galley to prepare dinner. I can stay for a moment if you need me."

In spite of the severity of what has just passed, (I _could_ have died, I accept with morbid reality) a tiny part of me wants nothing more than to take Peeta behind the curtain and let his kisses renew me. The more rational part of me says he would never do such a thing with four nosy sailors just outside the boundary of my just-barely-private space.

Still, his simple act of kindness to protect me from the eyes of the other men does not go unappreciated by me.

I know that Peeta is too much of a gentleman to have stared at me in the state in which I found myself after Haymitch pulled me aboard. I think about what Finnick told me earlier, about arousal. I am secretly thrilled by the thought he might haven seen _something_.

"Katniss?"

I realize I have been daydreaming, and he is awaiting my reply. I have a thought.

It's a wicked thought.

I know it's sinful of me to be thinking of such scandalous notions and I can practically hear Miss Trinket's lilting voice shrilling about harlots and decaying morals.

But he is just so handsome. And the way he is staring at me presently has me unable to manage anything _but_ wicked thoughts.

I give him a wry smile and study the angle of the curtain. It is shielding me from the prying eyes of Cato's watch adequately. I bite my lip, suddenly nervous.

But I drop the sail anyway.

The wet material of my sailor's shirt clings to me, and I observe Peeta's eyes darken with desire as his gaze rakes over me.

"I'll be fine, Peeta," I say, my smile widening at his reaction to seeing practically all of me. He shakes his head

"You nearly died." He leans forward, his voice a quiet hiss, though I can hear the playfulness in it. "And you're in the right mind to tease me?" He looks away, too chivalrous to allow his eyes to linger on me, but as my own eyes dart down his body, I know he will have to hesitate to allow his excitement to ebb before he crosses the forecastle in front of the others.

"If I were teasing you," I reply, "I would have dropped more than just the sail."

"You are quite the piece of work, Miss Everdeen." He shakes his head again, a smile playing upon his lips as he draws the curtain closed.

I giggle and fling myself into my hammock, forgetting momentarily about the captain's overt vendetta against me.

* * *

Haymitch is true to his word, and early that afternoon, he coaches me in the handling and throwing of a knife for the better part of two hours. He praises me for my quick study (and at his repeated compliments, I glow with pleasure) and encourages me to continue practicing. I do, and I am slightly alarmed by how natural it feels and how much I enjoy aiming at a target and letting the blade fly.

That evening the clouds roll in, creeping over the horizon with menacing speed. The usual pastel tones of the sunset are swallowed in a gray haze, and the air grows heavy, stagnant, and it teems with moisture. By the next morning the wind has kicked up, but by noontime, it is strangely calm again.

Brutus and I are holystoning the deck together when another breeze springs up, increasing with intensity. I make an off-handed comment about the strange pattern with which the winds are gusting. He squints at the sky and grunts.

"Could be nothing," he shrugs. "Let's hope it's nothing."

"Well, what else would it be?" I ask.

At that precise moment, a brilliant red bird lands on the rail behind Brutus, and I gasp with shock at the sight of the animal.

"Brutus, look!" I cry, pointing. He straightens his bulky form and glances behind him. A peculiar look crosses his weathered face.

"Huh," he frowns.

"What?" I press. "Is a bird not a good sign? There's no way it could fly this far, correct? We must be close to land! That _was_ fast!"

"Hardly, Katniss." He shakes his head and stands, advancing carefully upon the rail. His movements are deliberate, slow, as he nears the bird, studying it from a closer vantage point before the bird flinches and flies off. "As I suspected. Probably from the Caribbean. Seen tons of birds like that down there when we've docked in those ports."

"The Caribbean!" I cry. Though my knowledge of geography has never been particularly strong, I know that the Caribbean is much further south than the northern Atlantic that we are sailing. "That's so far from here!"

"Yep. Probably a thousand miles or so."

"How would a bird get that far from its home?"

Brutus squints at the sky again. "Storm-driven, probably."

"I wouldn't think a storm could blow a little bird over a thousand miles."

"A typical storm wouldn't. A hurricane, on the other hand…they're the most potent storms out there. They could easily blow a bird astray."

"What is a hurricane?" I cannot recall hearing of such vicious storms before, though I have read Shakespeare's The Tempest once. I shiver as I recall the violent squall in that play, conjured by magic though it was.

"Worst storm of all. Happen pretty often in the summer and early fall. The most torrential winds and rain you can imagine. Hurricanes are sheer power," he begins. "Wind and water are two of the most powerful forces on earth. Put them together and it's like lighting a spark to a keg of dynamite."

"You think a hurricane is coming?"

"The patterns of the winds, the air, now the bird…yes, Katniss, I think it's entirely possible we are on a collision course with Mother Nature."

The hurricane is the topic of conversation among my watch later than evening when we are eating supper.

"What happens if it is a hurricane?" I ask anxiously. "I assume the captain knows how to handle such a storm?" It is kind of a foolish assumption because truly, he must be experienced in managing such forces of nature if the storms are as common as Brutus made them sound to be in the summer months.

Brutus grunts and Finnick nods.

"Aye, Katniss, but I think that's what the captain and Mr. Crane were arguin' about the other day."

"The hurricane?"

"We've all suspected the weather was turnin' and not for the better," Haymitch adds.

"We can sail around it, yes?" I ask hopefully. I have never been fond of thunderstorms, and the few ordinary ones we have had during this voyage have unnerved me on several occasions.

"That's just it. The captain doesn't want to sail around it," Haymitch replies, spearing a piece of dried beef on the point of a knife and gnawing it off with his teeth.

"What? Why!?"

"A hurricane is the worst storm of all, as I told you before," Brutus pipes up. "But if a ship is positioned just right, the conditions are ideal to catch a gust, and it can blow you into port in half the time."

"And if it doesn't work?"

The three men exchange wary glances. Haymitch clears his throat.

"It can fuckin' blow a ship, and everythin' on it, clear apart."

I swallow, the ominous warning that Haymitch speaks settling into the pit of my stomach like a rock.

"The captain…" I begin warily, "he wouldn't be that foolish, would he?" Again the three men glance at each other and not directly at me.

"He's done it before. And it's worked before, so he's more inclined to think lightning can strike twice," Brutus explains. Haymitch snorts disdainfully.

"Lightning's gonna fuckin' strike alright. And when it does, and it sets this ship and everyone on it ablaze-" My mouth gapes in horror, and that rock in my belly expands one the size of a boulder.

"Haymitch, enough." Finnick's tone is the harshest I've ever heard it. "Ye're scarin' poor Katniss."

"I'm not scared," I whisper, my voice quavering and betraying me wholly.

Brutus claps a brawny hand on my shoulder and squeezes it gently. "It's alright, Katniss. We've all sailed through one tempest or another. If it is indeed a hurricane that's brewin', we'll see you through it."

I appreciate their words, but when I finally slip into my hammock for sleep just after midnight, I cannot keep my thoughts from straying to the anxiety I feel at the imminence of this massive storm.

It is the first night in so many that instead of dreaming of Peeta, my eyes close to dreadful visions of an unimaginable Hell brought about by the fury of nature.

It is frightening how accurate my nightmares will turn out to be.

And how much even worse they will still become.

* * *

_A/N-I love to hear from readers. Please do let me know what you thought. I reply to every review and PM. Thank you for all the follows and favorites too!_

_And for those readers who have yet to check out my modern AU, Windfall, Chapter 2 is up now. (I promise my next story will not have Wind in the title though, haha.)_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Author's Note: **_Thank you again for the wonderful support you've all shown this story. The reviews, the follows/favorites and the PMs mean so much to me! I also sincerely appreciate the few guest reviews this chapter received...I'm sorry I had no way to reply to you!

This chapter is a _little_ shorter than the previous ones, but that's the result of it being split from what follows in Chapter 14. It was two shorter chapters or one monster chapter...and it's not smooth sailing, so the short chapters won.

THG belongs to Suzanne Collins, CD belongs to Avi, and I must thank, as always, Jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar for their support and guidance.

Finally, this chapter is dedicated to HGRomance (Happy Birthday, my friend!) and Kismet4891 for reasons that will become very clear momentarily. Addtional notes on this chapter will continue in Chapter 14.

* * *

It is impossible to fathom the Hell that Mother Nature is capable of creating on Earth until one is thrown into the depths of Her fury.

As all had predicted and feared the hurricane strikes on the fifty-fifth day of our voyage. The violent rocking of the ship tosses me from my hammock, rousing me from a restless slumber and thus I am already wide-awake when the desperate cry for "all hands" comes three bells into midwatch. I crawl about on my hands and knees, for each time I attempt to rise, I am tossed back to the floor. All of the crew's belongings (including my massive trunk) scatter about the darkened space, and I must dodge them as I scramble.

Brutus braces himself against the wall and he grabs my forearm, hauling me to my feet.

"Your jacket, Katniss. You're about to enter a Hell like you've never imagined. Best protect yourself a little."

I consider the dunking in the sea I received on the bowsprit and decide at the very least, the jacket (which Haymitch had found for me a few days after the incident on the bowsprit, though it is so big that it swims on me) will provide me some modesty in the driving rain. I dash back to my space, taking brief spry steps to avoid the chaotic jumble of bags and trunks. It reminds me of leaping over the creek behind my family home when I was very young, trailing after Gale Hawthorne (who was two years my elder and had usually let me tag along with him like a brother might) as we skipped from stone to stone.

That was whimsical fun, child's play.

This is anything but.

"All hands! All hands"

The cries are growing more urgent as I follow Brutus onto the deck, tugging on the oversized jacket as we go.

The rain cascades down as if buckets are being overturned in the heavens. It's a cold, bitter rain in spite of the summer heat, and it soaks me to the skin within minutes. The wind howls and moans, its macabre whistling like that of a banshee.

"Katniss!" Brutus yells. I squint into the maelstrom, barely able to see the burly man just several feet in front of me.

"What?" I cry in return.

"Do the best you can to keep one hand on something, anything, whatever you do. The human body is no match for an angry sea, especially a girl as slight as you."

As if on cue, a wall of water jettisons itself over the port railing, its massive force sending me crashing to the deck, my shoulder slamming the wooden plank.

"Shit!" I hiss, hot bursts of pain emanating from the point of impact immediately. I suck in a breath, sputtering at the rain that floods my mouth as I do so. Clamoring to my feet, I blink furiously to clear my vision but it does little to aid my sight.

Brutus steadies me with a hand and as we approach the quarterdeck, furious shouts can be heard, rather clear in spite of the din of the squall.

"It's insanity, sir. Madness! You must reconsider. There shall be no profit at all if we capsize and sink to the bottom of the sea." Mr. Crane's pleas are frantic.

"When you are captain, Mr. Crane, you can make the decisions. This is my ship, and I say we sail on." The reply is cold and calculating, typical of the Snow that has been revealed to me since the mutiny.

"It's madness, sir!"

"Where are these fucking dogs?" Snow spits heatedly. "Call again, Mr. Crane."

"All hands! All hands!"

Brutus and I exchange a nervous look as we stagger to the quarterdeck stairs. Captain Snow appears above us, his white hair plastered to his forehead and neck beneath his drenched, flattened hat.

"All hands aloft!" he snaps himself. "All hands aloft!"

His words freeze me in place. Mr. Crane's accusations could not be more accurate. How could anyone even think of climbing into the rigging in this tempest?

I glance up, rain pounding my face as I peer into the gray abyss.

Captain Snow's crazy words seem a little more lucid now.

What I see is a mass of tangled lines and wildly whipping sails. The vicious gales spewed forth by the storm have torn sails free from their ropes, and many of them snap and flap uncontrollably, like the strings of a perverse marionette.

Shapeless forms begin to assemble beneath the shrouds and I know the rest of the crew has arrived.

Another rogue wave pummels me to the deck, this time knocking me flat on my bottom. My tailbone throbs, but I grit my teeth and stumble to my feet again, grappling with a rope that has snapped and now dangles before me. I use the stray line to guide myself towards the forward mast.

I cringe when I reach it and the only man there is Captain Snow. His back is to me, working to untangle a low-lying line.

"What do you wish me to do?" I scream over the wailing wind.

"The mast. It's going to come down if the foreyard isn't cut free. Get thee aloft. Now!" He does not turn, and so I cannot be certain if he even knows it is me to whom he has issued the command.

"I don't have a knife on me!"

He turns, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, and as his gaze lands on me, he scowls visibly.

"The knife! Give it to me!" I implore. He hesitates but reaches out, and my fingers grip the handle of the blade tightly.

"Now get up there and cut that sail free. Move, dammit, you stupid girl."

Seething at his impudence, I clench my teeth around the knife and use both my hands to drag my body onto the rigging and begin the agonizing climb. Sheets of rain beat down on me, and climbing against the slanting current is indeed more like fording a river. The elements cause my ascent to be even more laborious than the very first day I climbed, the day I swore my allegiance to this crew.

Onward and upward I climb, oblivious to the horrible sounds enveloping me.

The rain screams. Lightning flashes, splitting clouds apart with electricity, and it's immediately followed by thunder that growls and shakes the sky.

The ship itself creaks and groans, again and again like it is issuing a repeated moan for help.

A horrific crack just above me stops my heart mid-beat and I choke out a scream as another spar splinters. The sail strung along that rigging collapses and the heavy canvas plummets towards me. It drapes over me like a funeral shroud, and I cling to the rope with one hand while fighting off the weighty fabric with the other.

When I finally free myself, my hair is a knotted mess, my braid nearly strangling me like a hangman's noose. I tighten my teeth on the knife and resume my climb, pausing only when an ominous, distressing cry slices into the chaos. In my position, I am useless to discern who or what issued such a sound or for what reason so I return my attention to the task at hand.

I finally reach the snarled sail and I steady myself on the spar, but as I do, a powerful gust of wind whips my braid into my face, lashing me as ferociously as the crack of a whip. It stings no worse than the lashes of the rain, but it temporarily blinds me.

As I hack at the rope holding the damaged sail, the bulky sleeves of the jacket impede my efforts, making it difficult to lift my arm. The jacket's heavy canvas smothers me and I realize with some distress that I must shrug the garment off me if I am going to complete this job properly. I shift the knife and snatch it between my teeth again. With one hand perilously clinging to the rope, I struggle to free myself from the jacket. When the garment is finally off of me, I toss it into the maelstrom. I never see it again.

I resume my cutting motion, feeling infinitely lighter, and the threads of rope practically burst apart the moment the sharp blade touches them. The sail billows free, flapping wildly in the howling wind.

I pause, unsure of what my next move should be. Was there anything to be accomplished while still aloft? I scan the vicinity, noticing the lines holding the spar itself are perilously close to snapping. Should they be cut?

I decide I should do no more than the captain ordered, lest I do something wrong and incur his wrath. I am unsure which fury is worse: Mother Nature's or Captain Snow's. So I close my eyes and say a quick prayer as I prepare to descend.

To my absolute horror, I realize that I have accidentally hacked away the foot ropes that were my path to the mast. I will have no choice but to shimmy myself along the spar to reach the mast. In normal conditions this is no easy task. In the midst of a hurricane, it's a potential death wish.

Biting down on the knife again, I lean my body against the spar and start to scoot myself forward. I am halfway home when the ship lurches forward, sending me tumbling off the spar. As I open my mouth to scream, the knife plummets down, and my fingers just barely clutch the spar.

It is a morbid scene of déjà vu. Except instead of being inches from the rushing sea, in danger of death by drowning as I was days ago on the bowsprit, I am now dangling by my fingertips some hundred or so feet above the ship. I am certain my death is imminent. I say another prayer for a painless demise, and I whimper a hoarse, "Help!" as my fingers slip, the relentless rain pelting my hands.

"Help!" I scream, mustering more strength, grunting in pain as my fingers start to cramp.

A shadowy figure clamors along the spar above me. Through the rain and my tears, I am unable to focus on whom it is or if it's even real.

But a gentle voice is suddenly in my ear.

"Katniss! Reach for my hand!"

_It cannot be. _

_It cannot be._

_Am I already dead?_

_I must be dead. _

"Katniss! Let go with one hand. Grab hold of me!"

A hand thrusts in front of my face. My heart hammering against my weakened chest, I release my right hand and grab for it. Surprisingly strong fingers grip my wrist and I swing through the air, suspended by only my left hand. But then it too is pried from the spar, and I am dragged back atop it, my body collapsing in great shuddering gasps.

His face looms over me for a second, those golden eyes bright in the sea of gray that is the sky. He smiles tenderly at me, but when I blink, he is gone.

_Cinna_.

I do not have time to dwell on the supernatural implications of my vision. I hear another tremendous crack and I realize with shock that there is nothing left of the mainmast. A splintered stump is all that remains.

I manage to finally descend to the deck and I scurry to the wheel where Haymitch is lashed into place. His gnarled hands grasp the wheel, and there is a large, jagged gash across his forehead. The rain has washed away any blood, but it looks deep and dangerous.

"Haymitch! Are you okay?" I cry, bracing myself against the driving rain as I stagger to his side.

"It's just a cut, sweetheart. I'll be fine." He nods towards the quarterdeck. "They can probably use your help." I glance back over my shoulder and notice the majority of the crew is gathered around a massive heap of tangled spars, sails and ropes. I hasten to join them, dodging dangling ropes and hanging sails. Peeta gives me a tight smile of what I think is relief, and I realize he must have been worrying about me. I return a shy smile and set to the task at hand.

We work at the pile of sails for the better part of the hour; the captain and Mr. Crane are nowhere in sight. Haymitch remains at the wheel.

The rain begins to slacken and the wind eases, and by the next bells, the sea is comparatively calm, and to my utter surprise, a slice of yellow fractures the bulbous gray clouds, followed by a burst of brilliant blue sky.

"It's over!" I exclaim, my voice awash in relief.

"Hardly," Cato snorts, shooting me one of his patented "naïve little girl" looks, as if to suggest I'm a fool for thinking so.

"Tis th'eye, lassie," Finnick explains. "'Tis like a pause in the midst o'the storm. She'll be back, and God willing, it won't be twice as bad."

"If we hurry, we can get the deck cleared and hopefully ride out the rest of the storm," Mr. Thread interjects.

"We can manage with just the topgallant?" I ask incredulously. All the other sails have been cut down or lost.

"Aye, if we're lucky," Finnick replies.

Working methodically, quickly and in complete silence, we finally reach the last of the sails. Chaff grabs the penultimate one off the pile, and I grunt as I gather the final sail into my arms.

And I scream.

And scream.

Lying prone on the deck, arms splayed out grotesquely on either side of his lifeless body, is Mr. Crane. From the center of his back protrudes a knife, buried in to the hilt. Bile rises into my throat as my eyes land on the handle. The intricate carving of the bird is instantly recognizable to me.

It is my dirk.

The dirk Cinna had thrust upon me.

The dirk that I left in my cabin when I joined the crew and settled in the forecastle.

I rush to the railing and vomit into the sea twice before staggering back to join the men.

"God's blood," Finnick murmurs, his trembling fingers moving in the sign of the cross. The rest of us do not speak. No one moves.

"What the fuck are you dogs all standing around for?" Captain Snow strides towards us. His hat is gone, and his white hair sticks up around his head like the fluff of a dandelion.

We all remain frozen. My stomach heaves violently, and each time my eyes shift and settle on Mr. Crane, the urge to vomit overwhelms me again, though there cannot be much left to purge.

"What is it?"

Chaff and Brutus step apart several feet to clear a path for the captain. He raises a bushy eyebrow quizzically and advances upon us. It is then he notices the body. His eyes scan our fractured semi-circle, scrutinizing each one of us deliberately.

The captain finally leans down and carefully lifts Mr. Crane's body just enough to press two fingers against the man's neck. A subtle nod of the captain's head confirms what I already feared from the moment the body was revealed.

Mr. Crane is dead.

My mind races with the plausible reasons for how that knife, _my knife_ wound up plunged between the first mate's shoulders. There can be no possible way it was a tragic accident.

But the captain is not done with his inspection of the body. His face is twisted into a mask of puzzlement and what I can only describe as restrained glee when he turns Mr. Crane's upper torso to extract something from underneath the dead man's body.

Another vicious wave of nausea assaults my stomach.

It is my handkerchief.

The captain locks his cold, severe gaze on me as he wraps the handkerchief around the scrimshaw handle and forcefully pulls the blade from Mr. Crane's back. He never breaks our stare, and I gape back, heart thrumming erratically as he wraps the knife in the fabric, red immediately staining the pristine white square. The slightest hint of a smile twitches on his lips as he glares at me.

I feel the eyes of my fellow crew mates fixed on me as well.

The bruised sky swells with clouds again, and the pitching of the ship begins anew. The waves resume their ghoulish dance and howling gusts pick up speed.

"Get this body off my deck. The storm will be back shortly. Mr. Gloss, your watch shall man the pumps. Mr. Abernathy is already at the wheel. Mr. Brutus, go join him. Mr. Mellark, use this break in the weather to prepare something for the men to eat. We shall all need our strength to ride out the rest of this tempest."

He turns an icy eye on me. "Mr. Odair, you and Mr. Everdeen can clear the deck. I will assume Mr. Crane's position. All of you, get moving. We don't have a moment to spare."

And that is it.

Not a single more word is spoken in regards to Mr. Crane's death.

An uneasy feeling remains in the pit of my stomach, but given the circumstances of the hurricane, I must focus my attentions on helping Finnick sweep the deck of debris before the storm strikes anew.

As Finnick and I gather broken planks and shards of wood (whether they once were masts or spars is indiscernible at this point) and tattered shreds of sail, Peeta and Mr. Thread carry away Mr. Crane's body in tandem. Peeta's eyes search mine, but I am too distraught to give him little more than a quick glance.

This voyage has claimed yet another life.

I may be innocent. I may be naïve. But I am not dumb.

I know full well that the knife in Mr. Crane's back did not place itself there. Nor did it magically disappear from its original location in my abandoned cabin.

There is something sinister afoot on _The Mockingjay._ And I fear I am like a deer in the crosshairs of a bow. A bow that has been drawn back and awaits release, aimed directly at me.

But I'm not granted the time to contemplate this any further because the storm indeed returns within the hour. It packs a ferocious punch as it batters us again, single mast and one lonely sail standing tall in the face of the beast.

Within the hour, my watch is called to man the pumps and relieve the other watch, who will receive a brief respite before resuming their duties. Shivering and trembling, I take my place next to Haymitch on one handle, Finnick and Brutus opposite us as we heave and pull, heave and pull in rhythmic fashion, working the pumps furiously.

We labor for three hours before earning our short rest. Peeta awaits us in the forecastle, offering bowls of gruel and tepid coffee, which does little to warm our frigid bodies.

"I cannot stay," he whispers fiercely, clutching my forearm forcibly, drawing me as close to him as he can without making our nearness obvious. "I need to go man the pumps with the other watch. Are you okay?"

"I am cold. I am tired. I am weak," I offer softly. "But I am alive. And trying not to be scared."

He nods and sneaks a quick glance around at the others. Finnick is already dozing in his hammock; Brutus and Haymitch both hunch over their bowls, spooning the warm gruel into their mouths greedily. Peeta presses a quick kiss to my temple and brushes the damp, tangled hair that has escaped my braid off my forehead.

"Stay strong," he urges, his blue eyes insistent. I let out a long, shuddering sigh.

"I will try," I promise. He squeezes my numb fingers and retreats.

It seems as though I barely shut my eyes before I am called back to duty. I struggle to hold the wheel steady when it is my turn at the helm. My entire being aches, burns with the effort I must exert to remain standing, the strength it takes to keep my fingers curled around those spokes.

The captain does not say two words to me throughout my entire stay at the wheel.

Cato relieves me awhile later and I brace myself against the unyielding torrent of rain as I return to the pumps. Three more long hours there and I earn another brief breather.

Wheel, pumps, forecastle.

Wheel, pumps, forecastle.

And so the rotation repeats. And repeats.

Finally, the rain ceases. The wind dies down to a whisper of a breeze and the waves recede to lap gently at the battered sides of the ship. The lone sail puffs proudly above the deck, and the buttery light of the sun glows upon us.

It has been the longest thirty-four hours of my short life. I say a silent prayer that I never again live to see such horror.

Chilled to the bone, my limbs numb, my muscles spent, my breathing shallow, I stagger down to the forecastle and curl into the fetal position in my hammock. I am too tired to even entertain a single thought. Wrapping my trembling arms around my knees, I close my eyes and finally allow myself to sleep.

* * *

I should know instantly that something is terribly wrong when I awaken, rejuvenated and feeling more refreshed than I should be after such an ordeal. My eyes flutter open, and I notice the makeshift curtain has been restrung around my little space. My lips curve into a small smile. Peeta, no doubt ensuring my privacy even in times of despair.

Extending both arms above my head, I link my hands together and stretch, rolling my shoulders down and swiveling my hips to loosen the knotted muscles all over my aching body. I swing my legs over the side of the hammock and slowly place my weight on them, pleased that they only wobble a little as I stand. My clothes are still slightly damp, but I make no effort to shed them. They are not so saturated to expose me to the men anymore (I try to assure myself that the men were all too caught up in the distressing situation at hand to bother gawking at me during the storm), and they will no doubt dry some in the muggy early August air.

It is when I throw back the curtain that I receive my first surprise.

The forecastle is completely empty.

Deserted.

The men's various belongings have been rearranged near their hammocks, and the large chest, which is now dented and splintered in several places, dominates the center of the room again.

But I am alone.

The notion perplexes me.

Where is my watch?

Where is the _other_ watch?

I race to the door and fling it open, my eyes scanning the shadowy waist as I make a run for the stairs.

And then I change my mind and dash to the galley. Peeta leans over the sink, scrubbing at a saucer.

"What the hell is going on?"

He jumps, the tin plate clattering noisily to the floor. I'm not sure if it's my voice that startles him, my choice of language, or both, but when he turns to face me, his eyes don't light up the way they usually do. They are weighted with sorrow and what appears to be shame.

"Katniss," he whispers, forcing a smile onto his lips. I stride purposefully into the little closet and stop inches from him.

"Where is everyone? Why was I left alone in the forecastle?" Frustration and anxiety swirls through me and Peeta's initial reaction to me only compounds those emotions.

"I'm sorry, Katniss. I was told not to say anything." Those beautiful blue eyes will not meet mine directly. My heart clenches.

"What is going on?" I cry. "Something is not right, I know it! How long have I been asleep?"

He fidgets and looks at his hands.

"How long, Peeta? Talk to me!" I implore him.

"Fourteen hours," he mutters. Fourteen hours! It is utterly unheard of for a working sailor to sleep more than four hours; in fact, it's nearly impossible due to the alternating watches. My stomach pitches and I shake my head.

"How?"

He does not answer me.

"Why was I allowed to sleep for so long? It's not because I'm a girl and you all pity me. Something is wrong, Peeta. What is going on?"

His handsome face twists in anguish, and I can tell he is agonizing over what he knows.

"Peeta, please! Talk to me! If you care for me at all, you'll talk to me!" I beg again and grab for his hands, clasping them between mine. He sighs and glides his thumb along my palm. He closes the short distance between us and captures my lips in a quick, heated kiss.

"Sorry," he breathes, releasing my mouth a moment later. "I had to do that again. You know I care about you deeply, Katniss."

"Would you please tell me what is going on then? Why didn't you come wake me if it was my watch?"

"We were ordered not to," he whispers. "I tried. Twice. Both times, I was intercepted by Gloss."

My stomach is a verifiable knotted mass of nerves. Peeta is keeping something from me.

"It hurts me that you will not just tell me what is going on," I frown and a guilty look creeps onto his face. He threads his hand through his matted blond curls and hesitates.

"It's Crane, Katniss. His murder."

Murder. The word chills my blood. And hearing it said aloud that confirms all that I feared when Mr. Crane's body was first revealed. The knife got in his back somehow: _someone _put it there.

"Who said murder?" I say slowly.

"Snow," Peeta replies. "Mr. Crane was murdered."

"Who murdered him?"

Peeta hesitates and rubs at the nape of his neck. "The captain says you did."

I should be more shocked by his words, but I am not. I knew from the moment I saw the handle of my dirk that I was caught in a vicious web of carefully-spun deceit. I am being framed.

The depth of Captain Snow's hatred for me has been affirmed.

"Where is he?" I spit, spinning on my heel and scrambling for the door. Peeta darts after me, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me flush against his body, my back smacking into his solid chest.

"Katniss, don't!" he warns, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. "Stay with me. Calm down." But I thrash against him, swinging my fists wildly, feeling Peeta wince as I pummel him.

"Let go of me!" I cry.

He obliges and releases me, and I immediately stumble to regain my footing, running from the galley. I don't bother to look behind me to see if Peeta follows.

I burst onto the deck and the first two men I see are Haymitch and Finnick, who are working together to mend and sand the splintered starboard rail.

"Haymitch! Finnick!" I march across to where they stand. Both gape at me in silence.

"Why didn't you call me?" I hiss, my throat tight with suppressed rage. It is the captain with whom I am the angriest, but I cannot deny it stings that not a single crew member respected me enough to come to me and rouse me. Murder accusations or not, these men have become my family.

And I have the sudden nauseating feeling that I am alone. Again.

"We were told not to call you, sweetheart," Haymitch replies, his gruff voice surprisingly tender. A large white bandage now covers the wound on his forehead. Pity clouds his slate-hued eyes.

It is the same answer Peeta gave me.

"The captain, lassie," Finnick continues. "'E warned us not t'approach ye."

"And you all just listened to him?" I accuse, apprehension mounting. They look away, guilt apparent on both their faces.

Just like Peeta.

"You cannot believe him," I beseech them. "Have these past several weeks been for nothing? Have I not earned your trust?" I laugh bitterly. "How could you even think I could _do_ such a thing?"

Before either man can answer, Peeta emerges from the waist of the ship, hovering near the quarterdeck, his eyes fixed on me.

"I cannot believe you. All of you! What he did tell you? I can't wait to hear what kind of lies he's spinning to slander me so!" My disappointment and rage muddle in my veins and I am on the verge of tears.

But I will not let them see me cry.

"Katniss," Peeta calls. I ignore him.

"Answer me, Haymitch!" I advance on the older man, levering myself on my tiptoes to get right in his face. "What the hell did he say about me? You owe me an explanation!"

"Easy, sweetheart," he snarls, grabbing my wrists and easing back down on my heels. I clench my fists at my sides and then place them on my hips. I know I resemble a petulant toddler throwing a temper tantrum, but I am too enraged and distraught to contain myself.

Finnick busies himself with the railing, and Haymitch scoffs at being left to field my inquiry alone. Nevertheless, he clears his throat and speaks.

"When we was committin' Mr. Crane's body to the sea, giving him his proper burial, the captain made a big fuckin' production of it. He couldn't have given two shits about Boggs or Cinna, but you woulda thought Crane was the second comin' of Christ the way Snow went on. And on.

"And then, of course, he announced to all of us that it was blatantly obvious what had happened to poor Mr. Crane."

"I murdered him," I reply bluntly.

"Aye, that's exactly what he said."

"And what did our esteemed captain say was my reasons for doing so?"

"Revenge." Haymitch spits over the broken railing and studies me critically. "He said you were avenging your dear friend Cinna's death."

_Cinna._

Like the crack of the proverbial whip, the vision of his kind face hovering above me during the storm and his strong fingers pulling me to safety are prominent in my mind.

_Is he dead? Did I see his ghost? _It's not possible.

But I _felt_ his fingers grip my arm. He pulled me to safety.

"But Cinna…" I begin, but I cannot finish my thought. Because what am I to say? Cinna rescued me on the foreyard spar during the storm and I think he might still be alive? Such a statement would sound like madness, and a crazy girl might certainly be capable of murder. I go silent.

"Cinna what?" Haymitch hedges.

"Nothing," I whisper, cutting my eyes out over the gently rolling sea. "You cannot believe the captain, Haymitch." I say fiercely. "It makes absolutely no sense."

I think I see a glimmer in Haymitch's steely eyes, but I am unable to get out any number of the myriad of questions still swimming through my consciousness because Captain Snow has appeared on the quarterdeck, just above where Peeta stands.

He is no longer a picture of gentlemanly elegance. His clothes are as tattered and soiled as the rest of ours and his hair and beard are disheveled. The mark where I struck him with the whip (it seems like eons ago) still mars his cheek, a fading pink streak across his skin.

"Miss Everdeen!" the captain announces.

"Katniss!" I shout back.

"Miss Everdeen-" He ignores me. "I hereby charge you with the murder of Mr. Seneca Crane!" His smug countenance fuels my anger and my limbs are liquid fire. I practically tremble in my fury.

"You are mad! I would never do such a thing!"

"You shall have your chance to speak on your behalf," he states dully. "But you shall be warned that anything you say in this moment can be used against you."

"I did not kill Mr. Crane. You, Mr. Snow, are a liar and a coward. If you were to accuse me of murder, why should you not have done it the minute we found his body? You could have locked me away then but you _needed_ me. Needed my hard work during the storm and-"

The captain's lips curl into a venomous smile.

"You certainly are fond of running that mouth of yours."

"I did not kill Mr. Crane," I insist again, stamping my foot emphatically.

"Your peers shall help decide that, Miss Everdeen. I am a fair man-"

"You do not know the meaning of the word!"

"Hush, Miss Everdeen. You may wish to quell that temper of yours. It looks bad in front of your jury." He sweeps his hand in a grand mocking gesture, and my eyes dart around the deck, to the shrouds and spars above me.

Every last sailor on board has been watching our exchange.

"You will not get away with this," I hiss. His frosty eyes challenge me that he thinks otherwise.

"Mr. Cato!"

"Sir?" Cato jumps down from the shrouds just above where Haymitch and I stand. He smirks at me.

"Take Miss Everdeen to the brig. She shall be imprisoned there until her trial commences today at the first bell of the first dog watch."

He sneers victoriously. The bow has been released, and the arrow has hit its target.

Me.

* * *

_A/N-__I appreciate hearing what you think of this chapter; the hurricane and the murder are both in the kids' novel, but I've taken my own liberties with both her reaction (the girl in the book has no idea she's being framed) and the captain's motives. _

_As for the other big reveal...well that will have to wait for Chapter 14. I hope to have that, as well as Chapter 3 of Windfall, up next week!_

_Thank you for reading! _


	14. Chapter 14

_**Author's Note:** _Thank you for your patience with this chapter. It took some time to get it exactly right, as there were two versions of it that I bounced back and forth with for weeks before I went with the path that started in Chapter 13. I hope you'll have faith in my decision.

THG belongs to Suzanne Collins, CD to Avi.

Many thanks to my muses, Jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar.

* * *

Cato is all too eager to escort me to the brig. He smiles cruelly as I shrink back against the rail, sensing Haymitch still beside me. "Let's go, Pretty."

I turn my head and meet Haymitch's eyes. He shakes his head despairingly at me. Finnick finally offers me a sympathetic glance, and my stomach twists painfully.

"C'mon Katniss," Cato urges. "I've got work to do."

My teeth graze the inside of my lower lip, pulling at the chapped skin.

I have no choice but to go with Cato. I narrow my eyes at Captain Snow, who tosses Cato a rusted object. It sails through the air and the muscled sailor catches it. A key. I swallow instinctively.

I really will be imprisoned. Locked up. I shudder and glance over at Peeta. His mournful eyes offer me an apology. He believes me. It is a small comfort.

I hold my chin high and follow Cato down the ladder of the central hatch, past top cargo-here he lights a lantern. He motions for me to continue on into the hold. The lantern issues very little light in the vast, murky place, and it's incredibly difficult to discern the surroundings A pervasive odor assaults me as we press forward, and I am appalled to realize we are walking across a decaying plank of wood that bridges the blackened bilge below.

He stops in front of an iron cage. It cannot be more than eight feet by eight feet, and upon squinting my eyes, I see a small stool and a tray attached to the front of the bars with metal hooks.

Cato wrestles with the rusted padlock on the gate for a good three or four minutes, cursing frequently under his breath until he is finally able to yank it free. The gate creaks open. He glares at me.

"Go in," he orders. I hang back, shivering, not from the cold this time, but my naked fear. I truly am to be left alone down here.

"You shall leave me the lantern?" I ask meekly, using my widened eyes to plead with him. I hope I appear as pathetic as I feel.

Cato's eyes show the first flicker of sympathy, but to my dismay, he shakes his head.

"Can't. If it falls over, the ship'd catch fire, and that would be end of all of us. But you'd go first," he adds nastily. So much for that sympathy.

"It will be completely dark down here!"

"Yeah, well you shoulda thoughta that before you put that knife in Crane's back."

"You can't really think I killed Mr. Crane!" I sputter.

"Not really," he admits after several moments of silence. "But I don't really like you, so it don't matter to me what happens to you."

"If I wanted to avenge Cinna's death," I snap, my blood beginning to boil with rage anew, "why wouldn't I just kill the captain?"

Cato stares at me dumbly, as if the simple logic of the statement is far too complex for him to process. He does not reply; instead he retreats over the makeshift gangplank again and when he reaches the edge of the hold, he faces me and blows out the lantern with malice in his eyes.

The blackness is so absolute that I cannot see my quaking hand when I raise it directly in front of my face. My heart begins to pound instinctively. The lack of sight heightens all my other senses, and as I stand trembling in the center of the brig, I become aware of every single noise: the somber creaking of the ship, the groans of the timbers and the banging of the cargo against the walls. The scurrying and squeaking of the rats is constant. Water drips steadily into the bilge with pronounced plinks, and it sloshes around with a ghoulish sort of cadence.

My still-damp clothes only exacerbate the chill that has settled in my bones, and I shake so uncontrollably that I must wrap my arms around myself in a lame attempt to stop it. When I cannot stop my knees from knocking together, I fumble around to locate the stool and collapse onto it, hugging them up to my chest.

Hunched over and rocking slightly, I close my eyes and blink away the fat tears that have been welling in them all morning. How can this be real? How can this be happening to me?

My chest constricts and slows my breathing as I consider the implications of what I have been accused of doing. Murder. The willful taking of another's life. An offense punishable by death on land, and I assume, no less offensive or punishable here at sea. I choke on my tears as I consider the gruesome probability that Captain Snow will see me dead for a crime I did not commit. The ultimate revenge.

He hates me that much.

What did I truly do that was so offensive to him? He can't be that hateful to still be seething over an accidental lashing. Is Haymitch right? Did I offend him so greatly when I spoke of my father? Is the captain so egotistical that a threat to his authority by a young girl incenses him enough to carry out this gruesome plot?

I am so fully consumed with my grief, great wracking sobs echoing off the walls that I do not hear the soft footfalls at first. But in between hiccoughs and gasps for breath, my highly-attuned ears finally notice the quiet steps. My eyes fly open. Then more footsteps.

"Who's there?" I call, my voice little more than a strangled rasp in the dark. I wish I had a knife, I think with rueful irony.

"Katniss?"

The beating of my heart accelerates rapidly. My stomach tightens with apprehension.

"Who's there?"

The sound grows closer and the steps seem to cease just several feet away from where I sit. I leap to my feet, whirling about in the blackened space.

"Who is there? Please?" Now I know I hear shallow breathing. My own breaths quicken in response to my escalating fear. "Show yourself!"

The strike of a match sizzles and acrid smoke curls into my nose. The tiny flame from the match glides through the inky black and in an instant, a soft _whoosh_ precedes a larger flicker of flame as a lantern lights.

In the orange glow from the lamp, my eyes gradually focus and regard the hand holding the light. The skin appears dark, ruddy. My heart skips a beat in its mad tattoo against my chest.

"Katniss, shh. It's me."

_Cinna._ Those kind amber eyes mirror the flame he holds.

"It can't be." I shake my head and begin to tremble in fear. It cannot be. I saw him die.

"It is, Katniss. It's me." He reaches through the bars of the brig to take my icy hands in his warm ones. _Warm hands._ Not the clammy flesh one would expect a dead man to have. This is no ghost.

"Cinna?" I whisper hopefully. "Are you real?"

He laughs, that gentle, quiet sound that is a balm to my soul once more.

"Aye, Katniss. I'm real."

I release the breath I have been holding and a cry that is half-disbelief and half-joy escapes with it as I throw myself against the bars, desperate to be close to him.

"Hold tight," he cautions, walking around to the back of the brig. I twist my head to watch him pull several bars loose. They slide easily from place, and Cinna lays them soundlessly against the iron cage.

"Rotted sockets. Almost better than a key, huh?" He smiles, motioning for me to join him outside the brig. I slip through the gap and allow him to wrap me in his embrace. "You must be quiet, and you need be ready to get back in there quickly, yes?" I nod my consent.

"I thought you died," I murmur against his chest, closing my eyes as his fingers stroke the back of my head soothingly.

"It will take far more than a tyrant like Coriolanus Snow to steal the last breath from me."

"But the beating…it was so brutal. And I saw your funeral! I watched the men push your hammock into the sea."

"Ah, my hammock," he laughs quietly again. "Full, but not of me. It's amazing how hard your body can fight to live when your will is strong."

"You're real," I repeat. The measured thump of his heart reverberates against my ear, assuring me.

"I'm real," he agrees.

"Have you been down here this whole time?" I ask incredulously.

"Ever since. The first few days were rough. The pain from the lashings was excruciating. Fortunately for me, Peeta, Finnick and Thread were all kind enough to alternate tending to me while I healed."

"Thread?" Peeta and Finnick do not surprise me. But Mr. Thread has never registered with me as a compassionate man. But I realize that is likely more because I know virtually nothing about the former second mate.

"Aye, Thread. I think he wishes to be a good man in spite of that rough exterior."

"Does all the crew know you are here?"

"Yes, as far as I know. They take turns bringing me food and water, so I presume they all know."

"But the captain doesn't know?"

"Katniss, if Captain Snow knew, do you think I'd still be down here?"

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" I pout, sullen again that the men would exclude me from something so important.

Cinna does not reply immediately, and I sense he is searching for an answer.

"Cinna?"

He sighs. "I wanted you to know. The men caucused not to tell you. 6 to 2." My heart clenches at the betrayal. I assume Peeta is one of the two but I wonder who the other is. Finnick or Haymitch most likely, but the idea that one did not side with me is more alarming. I'm not certain I want to know the truth.

"Why?" I whisper.

"You went to Snow with news of the mutiny. They reasoned you could not be trusted not to inform a second time."

"But that's not fair!" I cry, staggering back from his arms and throwing my hands in the air in frustration. "I only did what the captain asked of me…and besides, that was before I knew the captain's true nature. Have I not proven myself to them? Shown my loyalty since that horrible day you…uh, died?"

"I know, Katniss," he replies. "You should know that I argued quite vehemently in your favor. I told them before that you were a righteous young lady. And remember, this was before you pledged to join them. You had not yet proved yourself. I imagine if we had voted again in the days after my supposed death, you might have had more supporters."

"They still could have told me themselves," I sulk. Cinna gives me a sympathetic smile.

"I think I slipped their minds most days, Katniss. Trust me, you earned their respect. What you have done, Katniss, joining the crew…"

"I owed it to you, Cinna," I interject, "I wanted to take your place."

"You did more than that. I'm proud of you." He squeezes my hand.

"So that really was you who saved me during the hurricane?"

"Aye, it was me."

"You risked being discovered to rescue me."

"To be fair, Katniss, I did not know you were in danger at the time. I came above deck to make myself useful. I knew staying down here when I could be of help would be selfish. It was a risk I had to take." He shrugs. "When I saw you aloft, I feared the wind would be too great. You're a tiny thing and the storm was a behemoth…"

"Thank you for saving my life," I say quietly. "It's a shame it will probably be all for naught."

"You should not speak like that," he chides me.

"It's true. The captain is putting me on trial today, and I have little hope that he won't see me dead before we pull into port."

"For what could he possibly put you on trial?"

I stare dumbly at him. "For Mr. Crane's murder?"

Cinna's eyes widen and his jaw drops. He is visibly stunned, and it dawns on me that no one has explained the events that transpired during the eye of the storm. "Mr. Crane is dead?"

"Yes," I nod.

"How?"

"When we were clearing the deck during the calm before the latter half of the storm, we…I…discovered his body under the heap of sails. He was stabbed in the back with a knife. My knife," I add miserably. "The dirk that you gave to me."

"Oh, Katniss," he sighs, shaking his head sadly.

"I had left it in my cabin when I moved to the forecastle to join the men. He knew it was there."

"He?"

"Snow," I spit.

"How did Snow know it was there?"

His question brings a new wave of shame over me. "I went to him with the knife shortly after you gave it to me," I whisper inaudibly. He remains quiet. "But I did not say from whom I got it! I told him I discovered it in my trunk when I arrived on board and it was probably a practical joke."

"So you lied to him?" he says slowly.

"Yes, I guess."

"Did anyone else know you had that knife?"

I contemplate the question and nod deliberately. "Peeta knew." I feel a slight blush rise on my cheeks. I don't suspect Cinna will notice in the dimly lit space. "And Haymitch, I think."

"You've warmed to young Mr. Mellark, have you not?" When I don't answer immediately, he continues. "I recall telling you that you might have considered giving him a second chance. You've heeded my advice."

"He's a very kind man," I stammer, my stomach flipping at the thought of Peeta.

"Katniss, we are friends, are we not?"

I surprise myself at the ease with which I answer his query. "Yes," I nod emphatically.

"You like him," he says plaintively.

"Yes," I whisper shakily. Admitting it aloud scares me. I do like him. But I like Cinna. I like Finnick. I even like Haymitch. What scares me is the thought that I _love_ Peeta. But can you really fall in love with someone so deeply, so quickly?

"He likes you too," Cinna continues gently.

"How do you know?"

Cinna smiles wryly. "I saw the way he looked at you from the moment you first met him." He pauses. "And he might have told me so on several occasions when he paid me visits." Soft laughter follows.

"I do think he believes that I had nothing to do with Mr. Crane's death."

"But he knows the true origin of the knife, yes?"

I gnaw on my lower lip, trying to think back to the day Cinna presented me with the dirk. Peeta had entered the galley, and he had seen Cinna and me in discussion before taking me to top cargo for my trunk. He had warned me to keep the knife, to take Cinna's advice.

"I assume that he thinks you gave it to me, yes," I hedge.

"Peeta will protect you. At all costs."

"What does that mean?"

"If the captain means to put you on trial, Katniss, he will no doubt call witnesses. Your crew mates, your sworn brothers, they will have to testify on your character, your behavior, what they saw during the storm."

I tremble slightly at the idea of what these men will say about me. Before today, I'd have wagered most of them would proudly stand behind me. Now I am less certain.

"And the captain will have to prove you had some motive to kill Mr. Crane."

"I think he will suggest that I was getting revenge for your death," I reply. "That's what Haymitch told me before the captain formally accused me."

"Accusations are useless without motive. I'm not dead."

"Yes, but I didn't know that!" I pause. "And I can't reconcile why anyone would believe I would go after Mr. Crane instead of the captain."

"Mr. Crane whipped me," Cinna offers.

"Yes, but he was following orders, and why would I not have assumed it was the captain's vicious lashes that ultimately killed you? So again, why would I have not just targeted the captain himself?"

"It's a fair point," Cinna muses.

My body suddenly tenses with recognition at something Cinna said moments ago.

Motive. Who had a motive for killing Mr. Crane?

"Cinna! During the storm, when Brutus and I first responded to the cry for all hands, Mr. Crane and the captain were arguing. And Finnick himself said that he had heard a row between them earlier."

Cinna's brows furrow, and slack lines appear on his forehead as he contemplates my words.

"Who is the only person on this ship who benefits from Mr. Crane being murdered?

"Katniss…" he warns.

"Tell me it doesn't make perfect sense, Cinna!" I begin excitedly. "It has to be him!" But I get no further in my extrapolation because the heavy fall of feet on the ladder freezes us both. I scramble back into my prison, and Cinna replaces the bars hastily. He places a finger against his lips, extinguishes the lantern and retreats into the murky blackness just beyond the brig.

Light looms closer, and my eyes can make out a figure advancing on the brig.

It is Finnick. He holds a lantern in one hand and a plate in the other.

"I brought ye some food," he says quietly, taking the lump of hardtack off the plate and placing it on the tray.

"Thank you."

Finnick hesitates in front of the bars, raking a hand through his coppery locks. "Look, lassie, I'm goin' t'be perfectly straight with ye…I don't know what t'think."

"Finnick, you can't possibly think I would do such a thing."

"I don't believe ye could 'ave killed anyone," he begins. "Ye're a good girl, Katniss." He pauses, and I can tell that he is searching for the right words. "Ye're a good girl, Katniss," he repeats. "Ye have a big 'eart. The things Captain Snow is sayin' about ye…"

"You cannot believe him, Finnick!" I cry, gripping the bars in frustration.

"I don't believe the captain, lassie. But some o' th'other men, they're makin' some pretty valid points about ye. Things the captain will be able t'use against ye."

"Cato and Marvel, probably," I grit my teeth. "Like what?"

"Ye were good with a knife."

"Haymitch taught me! You know I didn't know how to even hold a blade before I boarded this ship."

"Cato said 'e saw ye throw one clear across the forecastle deck with perfect accuracy."

"Haymitch is a good teacher. And I always strive to please my instructors."

"The captain said t'was yer handkerchief that the dirk was wrapped in."

"It was! I lost the sheath that Cinna had given me…"

"Cinna gave ye that dirk?"

My mouth hangs open on its own accord, and I realize I have slipped about the true origin of the dirk. I move my jaw, but no sound comes out.

"Captain said ye told him the knife was in yer trunk. Some kinda practical joke from yer mates at school?"

I lower my eyes, shifting uncomfortably. "It wasn't."

"So ye lied?"

"I was protecting Cinna," I say feebly. "I didn't want the captain to know he was the one to give me the knife. I didn't wish to get Cinna in trouble."

Finnick studies me carefully, his green eyes searching mine stoically.

"I don't believe the captain, Katniss," he repeats his earlier words. "But truly, I'm worried fer how ye're goin' t'be able t'defend yerself."

"I thought I was one of you," I whisper sadly, my stomach tightening, my heart sick at the notion these men could so quickly cast me aside, so swiftly forget the past few weeks and how much I have atoned.

"Ye are," he sighs. "Ye earned the respect and favor o'most o'the crew. Ye've done things none o'us ever thought ye'd do when ye first boarded this ship." He sighs. "He's goin' t'use that against ye too."

I blink back hot tears. He must see the wetness welling in my eyes.

"Please don't cry, lassie."

"I'm not crying," I hiss sharply, wiping at my eyes roughly with the sleeve of my shirt. "It's damp down here." I refuse to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing me in tears.

"Finnick, enough." The voice emerges from the darkness. Both our heads turn to face Cinna.

"Cinna, I…" Finnick utters a weak protest, but his clear green eyes express palpable shame.

"She doesn't need to be further upset right now." Cinna's voice is perfectly calm as always, but it's also firm.

"I'm sorry, Katniss. I am. I do believe ye." He shakes his head. "I'm sorry if I upset ye. I should get goin'. Snow's watchin' all o'us. Stay strong, lassie. We'll figure this out, we will."

"Thank you again for the food," I murmur. Finnick nods and pauses, as if he wants to speak further, but he glances over at Cinna and then leaves. I watch his light get dimmer and dimmer until the blackness swallows him whole. Cinna strikes another match and lights his own lantern. He remains outside the brig this time, leaving me inside alone.

"That wasn't too reassuring," I whisper sadly. I only feel slightly better knowing that Finnick does believe me.

"Finnick adores you, Katniss. He respects you, and he has always been very complimentary of you when we've been formulating our plan."

"Plan?"

"Yes, a plan." His tawny eyes glimmer imperceptibly. "Katniss, the hope is that when we dock in Philadelphia, I can sneak off the ship and report the injustices that occurred on this voyage to the proper authorities." Cinna smiles tenderly at me. "Finnick was emphatic that you, my dear girl, would not hesitate to back my accusations if and when I can reach the admiralty court."

His golden eyes glow with such hope that it breaks my heart to think what immediately springs to mind. "Cinna," I sigh softly.

"What?"

"You're a black man," I reply gently.

Cinna shrugs his shoulders. "Indeed I am."

"It's just unheard of."

"What is, Katniss?"

"A black man testifying against a white officer…it's just unprecedented."

"You believe in justice, Katniss. You've seen Captain Snow's reprehensible behavior for yourself, with your own eyes. Would you not go before a court and lend credence to what I say first?"

"If I am alive, I would, of course!" I nod vigorously, pushing back thoughts that I will not depart this ship in anything other than a hammock wrapped about me, if the crew would even still afford me such a kindness. "But even with my support, there is no guarantee, Cinna. There are still many in the United States that harbor unpleasant thoughts and prejudice against men like you."

"But this Philadelphia that you call home, it does not have slavery."

"No, it doesn't," I agree. Pennsylvania has always been progressive when it comes to tolerance. When I left for Panem, our family had black servants, but I know my father paid them.

"And is your father not part of the company that owns _The Mockingjay_?"

"Yes, he is."

"Then we go to your father. He will not doubt the word of his daughter, will he?"

I purse my lips. I do not recall ever hearing my father speak slanderously of black folk, but I was young when I was sent to England, and it is hardly a topic that arose in the letters we have exchanged through the years. But he has always supported me.

"I do think he shall believe me and thus, your story, Cinna."

"If he is anything like his daughter, I am sure he is a fair and just man of impeccable character."

I smile gratefully at him, buoyed an iota by the first kind words I've heard spoken about myself in hours. Another rustling sound startles us both. My eyes widen, and Cinna puts out the lantern and scampers away again. Footsteps grow louder on the ladder, and a faint glow rises in the inky black. It spreads as the figure comes into view.

"Peeta," I whisper, my heart leaping. It astonishes me how quickly my spirits raise from the depths of despair at the mere sight of him. He rushes onto the plank and crosses the bilge speedily, placing the lantern on a nearby barrel. He snakes his arms through the bars to grasp my hands.

"I cannot stay down here long. The captain is watching me. I fear he indeed suspects our closeness. How are you?" he asks softly, raising one hand to cup my cheek. I nuzzle the warmth of his palm.

"I'm scared," I confess. "I do not trust him, and yet my life is in his hands."

"It will be okay, Katniss. I won't let him hurt you."

I frown. "How can you promise me that?"

"Finnick doesn't believe him. Haymitch doesn't believe him. And I'm sure there are others who simply fear the captain's ire too much to say otherwise."

"I'm alone in this," I whisper.

He shakes his head vehemently. "No, you're not. _I _believe you," he asserts, lifting my chin. He tilts it to angle our faces so he can press a sweet kiss to my lips in spite of the iron bars separating us. "I believe _in_ you," he adds fiercely.

I suddenly crave his touch and his comfort so badly. I need his arms around me, unencumbered. I cross the narrow space to the back of the cage and lift the bars free as I saw Cinna do before and turn back to Peeta.

"Please?" I implore him with my eyes, and he needs no further words or invitation. He moves swiftly around to squeeze his muscular frame through the gap and gathers me into his arms, his warmth blanketing me as he holds me tight. "Please just hold me for a minute?"

He obliges, threading his fingers into my hair, kneading my scalp gently as I cling to him. I cannot find the words for how safe I feel pressed against him, and I can't help myself when my palm begins caressing the planes of his broad chest through his shirt. I feel protected, if only for these fleeting moments.

"Katniss," he warns me, his voice catching.

"Remember that day when I wrenched my back, and you said you could make me feel better?"

"Yes," he murmurs against the crown of my head. I swallow reflexively and continue before my nerves falter. I silence the nagging voice of Miss Trinket and her speeches about virtue and modesty.

"Can you make me feel better now?"

He gazes down at me, searching my eyes for permission. He knows what I am implying. My body tenses in anticipation. I slip my tongue out just enough to wet my dry, cracked lips, and his mouth finds mine in the muted light from the lantern. His arms tighten around me as our lips explore and tease. It feels so impossibly good that I almost forget we are kissing in the dank depths of a ship's jail.

Peeta steps backwards cautiously and settles onto the stool, pulling me down into his lap, his lips never leaving mine. My legs hook over his at the knee and my toes graze the floor. He shakes his head, reluctantly drawing back.

"Shift your legs," he orders quietly. "Put one on either side of mine, like you'd straddle a horse." I bite my lip, uncertain. "Trust me."

I stand up and hesitate, but his hands reach up and guide me down so that I am sitting astride him with just inches between us. I am nearly breathless at the thought that our lower bodies are so dangerously close to each other.

"Okay?" he whispers. I nod, and he smiles broadly at me, his fingers traversing the curve of my lower lip before retracing the path with his tongue. I gasp softly, parting my lips to take him inside my mouth. My entire being is strung with need, and Peeta's hungry mouth feeds it.

"Katniss," he murmurs between heated strokes of our tongues.

"Mmm?" I mumble against him.

"Can I…I mean, uh, can I touch you?"

I draw back, studying him. His face is visibly flushed even in the flickering light of the lantern, and his eyes are hooded and heavy with lust. "You are touching me," I reply plainly. I shift noticeably in his lap as if to affirm it.

"Um, that's not what…" he trails off, his fingers brushing a few loose strands of my hair away from my face. "Can I show you?"

The look in his eyes is so feral it takes my breath away. Oh. _Oh_.

"Okay," I whisper shakily, my nerves hissing with electricity. He rewards me with a private smile and claims my mouth again.

I am not expecting his hand to ghost up my rib cage and settle over my breast, testing its weight against his palm. I pant, heat flowing through my belly and down to my core. I clench my thighs and the movement causes me to gently buck against the length of him. He kisses me more fiercely and rocks his hips beneath me.

"This is okay?" he asks as he releases my mouth, his voice rough with want. I bite my lip and throw my head back as his fingers pluck at my nipple through the cotton. The little bud puckers under his caressing touch and sends another jolt of pleasure directly between my legs. _This_ is what he meant. And it is _more_ than okay.

"Yes," I moan quietly, closing my eyes when his hand travels across to repeat the same ministrations on my other breast. How have I ever lived without this?

"You feel so good." His teeth nip at my earlobe, and a sweet tension begins to build in my belly. My own fingers venture into his hair, clutching at the soft locks and pulling gently, guiding his mouth back over to mine. I part my lips and draw him in, his tongue probing until it finds mine. My skin feels too tight for my body, which is quickly catching fire.

Peeta's fingers tug at the hem of my shirt, hesitating momentarily before slipping beneath the fabric. I mewl against his mouth as his hands cover my bare breasts, and I arch into his touch. His lips move to assault my neck, and with each tiny gasp that I emit, his lower body thrusts against mine in rhythm. My center is now directly over him, over his erection, and with his movements, I feel it grazing my heat through the two layers of canvas.

His lips, his hands, his body…they are all tormenting me, the most delicious torture imaginable.

Peeta groans loudly, and like the crack of a rifle, I push away from him and stumble from his lap. He leaps to his feet, hands fumbling at his groin, adjusting his trousers. His eyes reflect confusion and embarrassment through the haze.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, returning to his arms and pressing a small kiss to his swollen lips. _Do mine look like that too? _I wonder, strangely enthralled by the idea our passion is so evident on his face. "We aren't alone down here."

Peeta's eyes widen, the blue of his irises now visible at the edge of his dilated pupils. "Cinna. Shit, I forgot," he mutters, his fingers playing with the frayed edges of my hair. "It is a little too easy to lose myself when I am with you." He laughs quietly, his lips on the curve of my neck again.

"Do you think he heard us?" I know that Cinna could not have possibly seen anything from the shadows of the hold, but the idea that he heard our moans of pleasure is genuinely mortifying.

"Probably not. The creaks of the ship and the sounds from the bilge are pretty loud. Everything echoes."

Those last words don't properly assure me. "Everything echoes?" I think of our noises and flush deeper. He smiles and draws me to him.

"Next time we'll be sure that I'm the only one who hears those delicious little sounds you were making." His words send a tremor through me, but I cannot allow myself to enjoy it.

"If there is a next time," I reply glumly.

Peeta grabs my shoulders and steels me to meet his eyes directly. "Don't you talk like that."

"I'm sorry." But my apology is not sincere, and we both know it.

"It will be okay, Katniss. You'll see." He kisses me gently again.

"You need to get back to the galley before the captain discovers you are down here," I sigh, reluctant to leave his arms. "I don't want anything to happen to you at my expense."

"I would do anything for you. And I don't like leaving you alone down here," he murmurs, pressing his warm lips to my forehead.

"I'm not alone. Cinna is here," I remind him. "But I guess I can take some consolation in the fact my trial starts in just a few hours."

"I will see you then." He gives me one last lingering kiss, and his eyes never leave mine as he slides out from the brig and walks backwards until the blackness envelopes him and I can no longer see any light. I crumble to the stool, burying my head in my hands and finally letting loose the torrent of tears that has been threatening to spill all day.

Cinna lets me cry for awhile, only reemerging from his hiding spot once I've spent myself of my distress. He enters the brig through the hole left by the missing bars, which I neglected to put back in place after Peeta's departure. He crouches next to me, placing one hand on the stool to steady himself and rests the other on my leg, just above the knee. His touch is comforting, and I am bemused by the small gesture and how loathe I would have been weeks ago to allow contact like this. The amusement immediately fades to shame. How long did I harbor such superior thoughts about Cinna and people like him? How is he any different than Peeta or I, except for the shade of our skin?

He's far more similar to me than Captain Snow is, and that thought sobers me.

"Katniss, Peeta is right. It will be okay." Cinna's serene voice interrupts my thoughts.

"You heard us?" I moan, hiding my face in my palms again.

"I heard what he said as he was leaving," he replies carefully, deftly evading my query. "But you cannot lose hope."

"Cinna, the captain hates me._ Hates me_. Do you think he won't manage to get exactly what he wants?"

"And that is?"

"Me. Dead!"

"Oh, Katniss. Captain Snow may be monstrous, but I cannot see him going so far as to…" he trails off, squeezing my knee reassuringly.

"As to what?"

"To hang you. He wouldn't kill a child."

I straighten on the stool. "I'm not a child, Cinna!"

"You're not eighteen. I'm not saying you're a child, Katniss, but you're not yet an adult. That has to count for something in his eyes." Cinna's pensive gaze settles on me. "He's a man who prides himself on logic. On semantics. It may be your saving grace."

I sigh and rise from the stool, pacing about the small cell anxiously. Cinna stands beside the stool, watching me move in circles.

"Katniss, you should relax. You'll do yourself no good by worrying nonstop for the next few hours."

"What else am I to think about?" I cry, exasperated and frustrated.

"Let's talk. You and me, like old friends." I raise an eyebrow at him doubtfully. Not at his allusion to friendship, as the prim and proper Katniss would have. But that he truly thinks my mind could be anywhere but on my fate.

But to my complete surprise, talking with Cinna is remarkably easy and indeed, my heart is able to lighten temporarily. We chat about his past some more, how he never felt he could measure up to his parents' expectations for him back in his village in Haiti. (I am a bit stunned to learn of his heritage, as there remains not a trace of any French or Creole lilt to his perfect English.) He confesses that he was not a typical boy, and he would rather have been with needle and thread than working in the fields alongside his brothers and cousins. His father called him weak and bullied him for his girlish tendencies-his father's words, not mine-and that what finally compelled him to run away from home was a punch to the jaw when he refused to court a neighbor's daughter.

I listen rapt, my heart swelling more with adoration for this gentle man. (How many times will I reflect on the exact meaning of those words, _two or one_, on this voyage?)

He then gets me to open up about my hopes for life back in Philadelphia. It does not have the same effect as listening to Cinna. Before boarding _The Mockingjay_, I wanted nothing more than to go home to my parents and my dear little sister and go about my privileged life in much the same manner I did at Panem. Now, I feel anxious, apprehensive about what lies ahead for me in the strange estate that I will once again call home.

It's an odd word. Home.

Cinna teasingly brings up Peeta again (young Mr. Mellark, he prefers to call him when he is jesting with me) but I coyly avoid the subject. I am not ready to contemplate all that the blond-haired sailor means to me. Nor do I have the time to do so. Heavy footfalls on the ladder send Cinna scuttling back into the hold for the third time that afternoon, but not before he replaces the two bars.

I shield my eyes at the too-bright glow off the large lantern that looms in the darkness and swallow, my mouth cotton-dry as I realize who holds the lantern.

Captain Snow stands before me.

* * *

_A/N-_So there you have it. Cinna is alive. The character on which he is based does survive in the novel (and he's MUCH older than my Cinna) but I indeed toyed with keeping Cinna dead. You can thank Kismet for giving me the final push to keep him resurrected. He's too vital to two scenes later in this story-they'd lose the emotional punch without him.

Thanks to all for your continued support of this story; I welcome your thoughts and comments!


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **Thanks for your patience waiting this next chapter. The last few weeks have been busy between the Spring Fling exchange on AO3 and the wonderful Jessa's (misshoneywell) PiP challenge. So many brilliant stories came out of both, and I had the pleasure of betaing quite a few for each challenge. I actually dipped my toes in the challenge waters and wrote for the SF. _Into the Wild_ is also posted here, so if you have a moment, please check it out and let me know what you thought of it. It's my first attempt at a one-shot, though I have a problem with brevity so it's quite long. I hope in the future to participate in more challenges. :)

This chapter is shorter than others, but I felt the trial might read tediously if I didn't split it in two. Thanks as always to ILoveRynMar and jeeno2 for their advice on the logistics of these scenes. The novel goes on for pages with semantics, so I try to cut to the chase as best I can.

THG belongs to Suzanne Collins, and CD is the property of Avi.

* * *

I swallow again, desperately trying to stimulate any moisture into my mouth as I stare into the cold, calculating eyes of Captain Snow.

He glares at me with pure, unadulterated hatred clouding his vision. The lantern sways as he raises it, scrutinizing me as I stare back, unblinking.

"Miss Everdeen, I will be brief. You are charged with the crime of murder. The murder of an officer, no less, which I remind you is a capital offense thereby punishable by death."

I remain silent.

"The evidence against you is overwhelming and indisputable. I am not even required to give you the courtesy of a trial. It is my right as the captain of this ship to sentence you to death and have you hanged by the yardarm at dawn. But I am a fair man, Miss Everdeen—"

This earns a snicker from me. His eyes flash venomously, but he continues his monologue. "I will grant you a fair trial, Miss Everdeen, where you will be judged by a jury of your peers, the men who you decided to claim as your equals when you abandoned my side and took theirs."

"I never—"

"Silence!" he roars, the noise so voluminous in the drafty, echoing cavern that I literally stumble backward and fall over the stool. He advances towards the brig, eyes glinting maliciously as he reaches for the rusted padlock.

"You'll have your chance to speak momentarily," he continues, twisting the lock and pulling open the gate. He gestures mockingly as he sweeps his free arm through the air. "Your trial begins now, Miss Everdeen."

I draw in a shaky breath and thrust my chin high, not wanting to give him any satisfaction of the utter and profound fear surging through my veins and clenching at my heart.

Marching behind the captain, I cross the hold and when I emerge from its dark depths, the brilliance of the day assaults me. I shield my eyes while I allow my pupils to contract, adjusting to the blinding rays of the sun.

My first thought is how the perfect cloudless sky is still not as blue as Peeta's eyes, but that is immediately replaced by anxiety when I scan the deck and see the captain has assembled a makeshift courtroom. A lone chair sits in the center of the deck, atop the cargo hatch. One of the captain's own elegant chairs from his cabin has been placed just in front of the quarterdeck rail.

It is then I see my crewmates, arranged in two lines; half are seated cross-legged on the deck, the other half are standing in front of the starboard rail. Most avoid my eyes as I glance up and down the rows.

Peeta stands at the far end of the back row, his hands clasped behind his back, and he gives me a tight smile. Even though I know I have his unwavering support, and he is most likely holding back so as not to further raise suspicions as to our true feelings for each other, I feel a slight twinge of sadness that his smile cannot be more sincere.

Haymitch is beside Peeta, and his steely glare holds my own gaze in place as he nods deliberately but discreetly winks. I try to make eye contact with Finnick, and he gives me the quickest of glances, his handsome visage stoic and unsmiling. He too winks, but it's so unlike the gregarious Finnick I am accustomed to.

The captain seizes my arm just above the elbow and roughly drags me towards the chair that faces the crew. "Sit down, Miss Everdeen." He nudges me into the seat, and I fight the urge to spit at his feet as I settle myself onto the hard wooden chair.

He strides up the stairs to the quarterdeck and retrieves something from his own chair.

"I, Coriolanus Snow, do proclaim this court to be in session in due accordance with the law. I will do the honor of presiding over this trial, a trial that is the result of my kindness and generosity."

At these words, Haymitch snorts loudly and coughs to cover the offending sound. The captain ignores him. "The evidence against Miss Everdeen is clear. Let the jury be reminded that the defendant is charged with the willful and deliberate murder of Mr. Seneca Crane, an officer on this very ship, late of Somerset, England."

He withdraws his hand from behind his back and reveals what he had grabbed from his chair. It is a Bible. He strides purposefully toward the crew and fixes his icy glare on Haymitch. "Place your hand upon this, Mr. Abernathy."

Haymitch cranes his neck and spits over the rail, scratching at the back of his neck absently. "And if I don't?" he challenges.

The captain leans towards him. "Are you refusing a lawful order, Mr. Abernathy?"

Haymitch glowers at Captain Snow and plunks his hand down violently, nearly knocking the Bible from the captain's grip.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

There is a hesitation, a long enough pause to rankle the captain's impatience. "Mr. Abernathy, I asked you a question."

"I heard your fuckin' question," he snarls. "I do. Up until the God part. Ain't no God I've seen watchin' over this damned ship."

"Mr. Abernathy, you shall refrain from pandering when I ask you a simple question."

Slowly and methodically, Captain Snow moves up and down the line of the crew, alternating thrusting out the Bible, repeating his oath and awaiting their replies.

Captain Snow had once intoned to me that this crew was a godless bunch, that they were rough and amoral. At the moment, they appear nothing of the sort. After Haymitch's outburst, not another man, not even Peeta, speaks more than the two words that the captain wishes to hear_: I do._ They take their oaths with solemnity, and most fidget and tremble as they pledge to speak the truth before God. Finnick appears particularly agitated. I cannot decide if their affirmations of faith comfort me or unnerve me.

And I yearn desperately to know what these men, my sworn brothers, are thinking. Do they honestly and truly believe I killed Mr. Crane? If not, then who? Who might they suspect? Are they protecting one of their own?

My mind swims with the grim possibilities but suddenly, the captain is before me, his cruel eyes fixed on me."Miss Everdeen, please rise."

I stand.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I do," I declare, my voice high and clear, not betraying an ounce of the panic coursing through me. Even as I speak the two little words, I am analyzing how to answer the captain's questions honestly, without lying, but perhaps not revealing everything. I cannot allow myself to trust this vicious man and thus, I fear even his questions will be calculated to expose me in the worst light possible. He has already accomplished so much in his meticulous plot to frame me.

"Remain standing," he orders me as he retreats to his position at the rail. He uses the butt of his pistol to rap loudly on the quarterdeck railing. "Before the eyes of God, let it be known that I, Coriolanus Snow, by my authority as master of this ship, _The Mockingjay_, do charge Miss Katniss Everdeen—"

"It is just Katniss! I am a member of this crew!" I interrupt. The captain smacks his pistol on the rail again.

"The accused will speak only when spoken to," he barks. "I do charge Miss Katniss Everdeen with the unnatural and unlawful murder of Mr. Seneca Crane, late of Somerset, England, the first mate on said ship. Miss Everdeen, how plead you?"

"I did not do it," I announce. "I am innocent!"

"Let the record state Miss Everdeen has pleaded innocent."

I can't discern to whom he is speaking, because no one is writing down anything that is being said.

"Miss Everdeen, before we begin your interrogation, I will offer you one last chance to save yourself." He smirks at me. "Do you wish to revoke your previous claim as a member of this crew and reclaim your position as our lady passenger? That is to say, do you wish to resume the protection of your father's name and hide behind him? Or do you wish to proceed and allow yourself to be judged by these men, your so-called brothers?"

I knit my brows and frown.

"Come, Miss Everdeen, you are a smart girl. Do I need to explain things to you?"

"No." But I take a minute to study the crew. I swore my allegiance to these men. I can only hope they will return the favor now when I need them most.

"I am a member of this crew, Mr. Snow." I cut my eyes to Haymitch briefly, and I swear I can see a glint of pride in his molten mercury eyes. "I trust them with my life." It is not entirely the truth, and my heart hammers painfully against my ribs.

"Very well then. Do you wish to accuse anyone else on this ship of the crime of which you stand accused?"

There is something in the captain's tone, the slightest alteration in his pitch when he utters the question, the shrewdest flash in those Arctic eyes that affirms my suspicions. That it is he who committed the murder of Mr. Crane. That he is daring me to put the accusation to him. That this trial is little more than a vindictive game to him, and Mr. Crane was the tragic pawn he needed to achieve checkmate.

Unfortunately, I am aware that my gut instinct is not evidence, and I have nothing with which to back this suspicion. I am powerless to voice such what is merely a gut instinct at this point.

"No," I hear myself utter meekly.

"Let the record show that Miss Everdeen wishes to be judged by the jury assembled before her, her peers, and furthermore, she wishes to charge no one else on this ship with the act of murder." He scribbles something in a book that now lies open on the quarterdeck rail. I suspect it is the ship's log. "Miss Everdeen, do you agree that Mr. Crane was murdered?"

"The knife did not put itself in his back," I say impertinently. I know I should be polite in my responses, and I can hear Miss Trinket bemoaning my lack of decorum, but my voice is all I have left with which to defend myself.

The captain is before me in four quick strides. His open hand strikes my cheek with a sickening slap. When my head snaps back, I can just see Peeta visibly flinch out of the corner of my eye. I raise a hand to my face, touching the stinging flesh gingerly.

"You were warned to answer the questions as they are posed, Miss Everdeen. When it is a yes or no question that is all you shall reply. Do I make myself clear?"

I nod.

"Do I make myself clear?" he shouts.

"Yes," I whisper.

"I shall repeat the question then. Do you agree that Mr. Crane was murdered?"

"Yes."

"And do you agree that Mr. Crane was murdered with a knife?"

"Yes."

"You were the one who discovered the body, were you not, Miss Everdeen?"

"We were all on deck, removing the sails during the eye of the storm," I answer slowly, waiting him to reprimand me, but he says nothing. "I was the one who pulled away the last sail. Yes." There. He gets his yes.

"Do you recognize this, Miss Everdeen?" The captain holds up the dirk horizontally before him, the tip of the blade touching his fingers as he awaits my reply.

I squirm in my chair, frustrated that I cannot extrapolate on the sight before me. In addition, I am well aware that the captain may indeed question the origin of the blade. I can only answer his question, less I want to get slapped again. The skin of my cheek still pulses faintly. "Yes," I reply crossly, containing a scowl.

"Is this the same blade that was in Mr. Crane's back, as you so crassly suggested earlier?'

"Yes."

"Whose knife is this, Miss Everdeen?'

"Mine," I mumble, fumbling with my hands in my lap.

"I cannot hear you!"

"Mine," I repeat more boldly, wishing Cinna could be here. I know his presence would give me strength. He has been on my side since the moment I boarded this ship.

"When did you get this knife, Miss Everdeen?"

I twist my lips into a snarl, and my pulse accelerates. "The first day I boarded this ship."

"Forgive me, Miss Everdeen, but I am a trifle perplexed by why a sixteen-year-old girl would be in the possession of a knife for an innocent journey across the Atlantic. Where did you get this knife?"

I close my eyes, not wishing to see the malicious satisfaction that I know is sparkling in the captain's eyes as I slowly answer. "From Mr. Cinna."

"Mr. Cinna!" he cries, feigning surprise. "Forgive me, again. Perhaps I am going senile in my advancing age. I thought when you first showed me this knife in my cabin you told me you found it among the belongings in your trunk."

"I did."

"You did what?" the captain probes.

"I did tell you I found it among my belongings."

"Which is it, Miss Everdeen? Did the knife mysteriously appear in your trunk, some kind of childish prank from your silly schoolmates, or did Mr. Cinna gift you with this weapon?"

"It was from Mr. Cinna." I grit my teeth, irritated that this despot is getting the best of me.

"So you lied to me."

I press my lips together tightly, nearly so firmly that a throb of pain ebbs over them when I release them. I do not reply.

"Answer me, Miss Everdeen."

"Pardon me. I did not think that was a question." Again I cannot completely quell my belligerence; strangely, it fuels me. I'll be damned if I simply roll over and allow this tyrant to railroad me. "Yes, I lied. I did not wish to get Mr. Cinna into trouble with you." I let the words run together in a tumble off my lips, less concerned with another slap from the captain than the crew thinking I was not willing to protect one of them from the first moment I set foot on this ship. It is a gamble I will be willing to take repeatedly if it means sparing my character and my devotion to them.

"I'm not interested in your reasons, Miss Everdeen. I am only concerned with your affirmation that you lied to me."

"Yes, I lied to you. But you did not seem overly concerned with my possession of said knife at the time. You told me to keep it! Bid me to keep it hidden under my mattress!"

"And you obeyed me. How kind of you." He paces back and forth atop the quarterdeck. "So clearly if you got this knife from Mr. Cinna, he saw you with it. Did you not also tell me Mr. Mellark had cause to see you with it?"

I swallow automatically at the mention of Peeta's name. "I believe I was honest with you and said Mr. Mellark might have seen it when he escorted me to my trunk in top cargo." I avoid Peeta's eyes, fearing any glance we share will crumble my resolve instantly.

"Mr. Mellark!" the captain barks.

Peeta raises his head and glares at the captain. I am not certain I have seen such loathing in his beautiful eyes since I have known him. "Yes?"

He twirls the blade back and forth by its handle between his palms. "Did you see this girl with this knife?"

"No," he replies clearly.

"No?" the captain mocks. "I remind you that you are under oath, Mr. Mellark."

I hold my breath. I know for certain that Peeta saw me with the knife that very same day, as I was holding it when he first interrupted Cinna and me in the galley. Peeta, like Cinna, encouraged me to keep it, warning me I may need it.

For the first time in so many days, I find myself regretting not having flung the cursed dirk into the sea as I contemplated doing countless times.

"I did not see her with _this_ knife. I can't say that I saw it in her trunk. The domer lid was open and I was standing behind it, giving the lady her privacy while she gathered her things. And I saw her many times practicing with a knife on deck with Mr. Abernathy, but I cannot say for certain what knife or knives they used in their training sessions, if you can call them that."

I bite the inside of my lower lip, hoping I do not visibly react to the fib Peeta has just told. But his voice is calm and measured, and I am awestruck at how smoothly he spins the yarn. I believe him, and I _know_ the truth!

The captain scrutinizes Peeta, his face flushed. I suspect he is fuming internally that he has not managed to use Peeta against me. Yet, anyhow.

He appeals to the crew. "Did any of you see this girl with this knife in her hand?" But his query is met with silence. "Let me rephrase my question. Did any of you see this girl with a knife in her hand at any time on this voyage?"

Cato and Marvel nod immediately, and slowly the rest of the crew bob their heads in affirmation, Finnick's hand raising deliberately.

"We all saw 'er with a knife once she took 'er oath t'become one o'us," he explains. "Just can't be sure which knife 'twas."

"Could it have been this blade?" the captain presses.

Finnick shrugs, cutting his eyes towards me. He lifts the corner of his mouth in the briefest of smiles before his face goes slack again. "Could'ave been. Could'ave been any o'the knives we keep on board."

The captain exhales audibly, his eyes narrowing. He quickly turns away, but not before I see his cheeks flush with what I presume is anger. I use the moment to steal a glance at Peeta. His mouth moves almost indiscernibly. _Be strong_, I think he says. I nod.

"Do you recognize this, Miss Everdeen?" Captain Snow spins about abruptly, waving a square of cloth through the air. It is my handkerchief.

"Yes."

"Identify this object."

"It is one of my handkerchiefs."

The captain nods deliberately. "One of your handkerchiefs," he muses, descending the steps of the quarterdeck and crossing to the crew. "Observe this handkerchief, men. Make note of the lovely monogram on it." The curlicued script of my intertwining K and double-Es—my parents might have gotten creative with Katniss, but as many other girls of my generation, I was given the middle name of Elizabeth, my mother's first name—graces the center of the now red-and-white mottled linen.

He pauses in front of Marvel. "Do you see anything else on this handkerchief, Mr. Marvel?"

"Aye. Blood."

"Blood. Mr Crane's blood, we can presume, since this very handkerchief was wrapped around the handle of this very blade when I extracted it from the late man's back."

"I can explain why the handkerchief is there," I call from my perch on my seat. The captain whirls about, eyes flashing ire.

"Did I address you, Miss Everdeen?" He pauses. "I'll humor you. Why was the handkerchief—your handkerchief—around the handle of the murder weapon?"

"The dirk was lost in the hold. I wrapped the blade in the handkerchief when I hid it under my mattress. Which is where I left it when I relocated to the forecastle."

"I did not ask you where you left it," he snaps. "Besides, it is irrelevant where you left it. If it was left behind in your vacated cabin, you still would have known of its location and had the means to retrieve it at any given moment."

"You knew it was there too," I spit. "You told me to keep it there! I testified to that earlier."

"Are you accusing me of something, Miss Everdeen?" His cold eyes penetrate mine, and I shiver at the look of complete disgust on his face. I shake my head.

The captain continues, "I'd like to return to a comment you made earlier, Mr. Odair."

Finnick's copper head snaps up, and his expression is uneasy, wary of the captain's attention on him.

"You said, Mr. Odair, that you saw Miss Everdeen with a knife. You could not say with certainty that it was this dirk, but nonetheless, you saw her with a blade, yes?"

"Aye," Finnick begins hesitantly. "Once she was a member o'the crew, she 'ad plenty o' reasons t'carry one."

"Did you see her in action with a knife at any point?"

Finnick shifts uncomfortably, giving me a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. "Aye, many times. Cuttin' ropes, splicin' lines, the lot. She's a 'ard worker, she is. Doesn't shirk a single task." My heart lifts slightly at the admiration clearly marking his tone.

"Did you ever see her throw a knife?"

"I can't recall," he frowns, and I sense he is struggling to answer the question truthfully. I know Finnick observed several of my sessions with Haymitch. The captain seems to sense it too.

"Mr. Odair, may I remind you that you took an oath? You placed your hand on a Bible and swore to speak the truth."

Finnick exhales loudly and rubs his left temple with his hand, closing his eyes. "I am truly sorry. I saw 'er with knives, but I can't recall if I saw 'er throwin' a knife, Captain Snow, sir."

Whether it is Finnick's subservient reply, the first sailor to address the captain properly this afternoon, or the captain's impatience, he turns from Finnick and takes several steps towards the quarterdeck again.

But then he changes his mind. "Did any of you witness the accused throwing a knife?" He glowers at Haymitch, daring the surly sailor to speak up.

Cato beats him to it. "I saw her," he announces.

The captain smiles knowingly. "Tell us, then, Mr. Cato, was Miss Everdeen good with the blade?"

"She was," he replies evenly, coolly. "It was unnerving to see a girl throw a knife with such accuracy. She'd probably hit a target more precisely than Marvel would." He laughs at his own joke at Marvel's expense, his arrogance unwilling to offer up that I could possibly be superior to Cato himself at the skill.

"It's unusual for a girl to be good at something so vicious, such a masculine action, is it not?"

I clench my teeth and glance at Haymitch, whose lips are curled into a defiant sneer. He is barely restraining himself from interjecting.

"I had a good teacher," I interrupt, locking my eyes on Haymitch.

The captain moves towards me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I fear he is advancing upon me to strike me again, but he stops and regards me carefully. "Mr. Abernathy," Captain Snow starts, "You trained this girl in the handling and the throwing of knives?"

"Yes."

"She was a good pupil?"

"She was outstanding."

I do not allow my heart to swell at Haymitch's words of praise because there is something sinister glinting in the captain's eyes again.

"Outstanding enough to land a knife perfectly between a grown man's shoulder blades?" I suck in a breath, taken aback by the audacity of the question.

Haymitch snorts derisively. "I ain't answering that question," he snarls.

"You're under oath, Mr. Abernathy," the captain cautions.

Haymitch shakes his head. "I don't fuckin' care. I didn't see her throw that knife into Mr. Crane's back, so I ain't gonna speculate whether or not she could do it."

"Very well, Mr. Abernathy. You can answer the question or I shall see you imprisoned in the brig for the duration of twenty-four hours once Miss Everdeen no longer needs its hospitality."

"On what grounds?"

"Impertinence. Lying under oath. Take your pick. Unless you'd just prefer a lashing. That can be arranged as well."

I only partially hear the rest of the exchange. I am too busy dwelling on the insinuation the captain has made. The captain has no intention of finding me innocent. The brig will not be empty because I will have been pardoned of the heinous crime against poor Mr. Crane.

It will be vacant because I will be dead.

The captain continues his questioning of the rest of the men regarding my prowess at handling and throwing knives. To my dismay, most of the crew is effusively complimentary. All but Peeta. He answers—honestly, I think—that he did not have the opportunity to ever see me throwing a knife, as he was thoroughly immersed in his new assignment as cook by the time Haymitch began teaching me.

But my ears perk up and I must struggle to keep my jaw from dropping when the captain poses his next question to Peeta. "Mr. Mellark, you are quite fond of the accused, are you not?"

"We…well, most of us on the crew are fond of her, yes," he begins confidently. "It took great courage for her to join us and try to ease our burden."

"I'm not asking you about the crew, Mr. Mellark. I'm asking your personal feelings about Miss Everdeen."

"Yes, I am fond of her. She has earned my respect. She works hard and never complains."

"Is that all, Mr. Mellark?" the captain taunts, his eyebrows raised in mock disbelief.

I realize I am holding my breath as the foolish notion that Peeta will confess something deeper for me in front of everyone darts through my head. I know that is what the captain is attempting to goad him into doing, and I know if he does so it could be very bad for both of us. But it doesn't keep that tiny part of me from wanting it so desperately.

"That is all," he replies, his voice remarkably composed. He never once glances in my direction.

"Why is it that I must keep reminding you dogs that you are under oath?"

"Perhaps because we persist in telling the truth in spite of your suspicions that we are doing otherwise?" Peeta returns sharply.

"Mr. Mellark, I cannot help but notice that you have not once looked in the accused's direction since you started speaking."

"My apologies, captain, I hadn't noticed." Peeta makes a rather exaggerated production of turning his head my way and smiling at me.

"Mr. Mellark, do you think the accused is capable of murder?"

"No, I don't," he replies automatically.

"Let me ask you a question, then. When you first met her, did you think she would be capable of reefing a sail?"

Peeta bounces awkwardly on the balls of his feet. I can tell he is instantly leery of the captain's intentions with this change in the line of his questioning. "No." He slides his eyes at me, and I worry the inside of my left cheek nervously.

"Did you think she would be capable of scraping the bowsprit?"

"No."

"Did you think she would be capable of scaling the mast to the royal yard?"

His voice has started to lose its self-assurance and gets progressively quieter. "No."

"Did you think she would be able to withstand the elements of a hurricane to work aloft?"

"No."

"I see. So she surprised you?'

"You could say that," he frowns darkly, knowing the captain has trapped him with this logic.

"So then is it not possible, Mr. Mellark, that your little girlfriend has surprised you once again."

"No, it's not possible," he spits, his handsome face flushing.

"I'm a trifle perplexed, Mr. Mellark, how you are so convinced of this girl's innocence."

Peeta licks his lips and cuts his eyes toward me again. His mouth curves ever so slightly upward as he speaks. "Because she didn't do it. I did."

* * *

_A/N-I know, I know. Again with the cliffhanger. Love me or hate me right now, p__lease share your thoughts and leave a review! Thanks for reading and continuing to support this story. _


	16. Chapter 16

**_Author's Note:_ **I tried not to keep you waiting too long after that last cliffhanger. I can't promise the next update will be as quick; it's approaching the end of the marking period, and my work is mounting. I had to do some rearranging of this chapter not to leave you with another HUGE cliffhanger, so the next chapter will need some TLC before it's ready.

Thanks for all the wonderful reviews to the last chapter, and thanks for the continued follows and favorites. I so appreciate the support.

Jeeno2 and ILoveRynMar...you know words can't express how much I appreciate both of you.

THG belongs to Suzanne Collins and CD is the property of Avi.

* * *

The frantic pounding of Snow's pistol on the railing immediately silences the ripple of shock that undulates through the crew. I am riveted to my seat, gaping at Peeta while the enormity of his confession washes over me.

"Mr. Mellark, I remind you once more that you are under oath!" the captain shouts, his lips pressed into a thin white line that mirrors the scar lacing across his reddened cheek.

Peeta nods. "I am aware of the oath I took."

"Then I suggest you think very carefully before speaking again. Perjury is as weighty a crime as the one to which you are falsely confessing."

"I guess it would be my turn to be perplexed then, sir, because I cannot figure out how you are so convinced that my confession is a lie."

My breath comes in shallow, erratic gasps as I try to digest that this man is willing to lie for me, put his own life on the line to spare mine. The knot in my stomach loosens and recoils itself, an entirely different sensation pooling there in its place.

Captain Snow mock-applauds, tapping his fingertips against the heel of his palm slowly. "It's actually very noble, of you, Mr. Mellark—foolish, but noble—confessing to murder to protect your beloved. I know what you're doing. But no one on this ship believes for a second that you are not utterly enamored with the accused. Am I right, men? Raise your hand if you think otherwise!"

Cato's hand shoots into the air like a flare. Surprise invades the captain's eyes. "Mr. Cato, you disagree?"

Cato shakes his head and tosses his dirty-blond locks out of his eyes. "He's not just enamored with her. He's in love with her."

Those two words_—'in love'_— stop my heart, and I have to press my palm against it to will it to start beating again. Peeta's eyes have narrowed, and he glares at Cato with open hostility.

"How do you know such a thing, Mr. Cato?" the captain muses.

"He's got drawings of her all over the forecastle. I've seen them."

At this revelation, Peeta blushes furiously, and he nervously glances over at me. Drawings? What kind of drawings? Of me? I am dually intrigued and stunned, as there is clearly even more to Peeta than he has already shared with me. He draws? He's an artist too? What can't this man do?

Captain Snow tents his fingers and smirks. "Drawings?"

"Aye, like sketches. He's got his nose in a sheaf of paper most of the time he's in the forecastle."

"How did you come to see these sketches, Mr. Cato?"

"The wind musta caught one of 'em and blew it out into the center of the forecastle one mornin'. I think he's been pretty careful to keep em hidden since she joined us." He thumbs in my direction.

Peeta's face is beet-red; it is the first time today that I have seen his composure waver. He wrings his hands in front of him, and he avoids eye contact with me, in spite of the fact my eyes have been locked on him since Cato's disclosure.

"Besides," Cato sneers, "there's no way he killed Crane. Peeta was below-deck mosta the hurricane. He was next to me on the pumps for nearly half the storm."

Peeta's shoulders slump slightly as he shoots Cato a withering glare. The captain's s eyes gleam triumphantly. "Can anyone else account for Mr. Mellark's whereabouts during the hurricane?"

A chorus of voices affirm that Peeta was in the presence of nearly everyone at one point or another. The captain smirks. "And can anyone else claim that they saw the accused during the same time frame where Mr. Crane was presumed to have been murdered?"

"You can," I mutter darkly.

"What was that, Miss Everdeen?"

I rub my cheek absently, figuring I am due for another smack for speaking out of turn. The captain saw me and knew I was aloft, as he was the one to give me the command and hand me the splicing knife. "You saw me go aloft," I reveal. The only other person who can attest to my own whereabouts is—in the captain's eyes—dead: Cinna.

"I'm not speaking to you," he snaps. "Mr. Mellark, once more I will remind you of the oath you took, and I will ask you directly: did you kill Mr. Crane?"

Peeta sighs and finally meets my gaze. Those beautiful blue orbs are expressive and wide, and they teem with regret and sorrow. I long to leap from my seat and seek solace in his arms, to thank him for being willing to risk everything for me. He does not answer the captain, but his silence speaks volumes, and the captain smirks triumphantly.

"I will deal with you after this trial is over, Mr. Mellark. Which will be soon, as I think we can all agree the culpability of the accused should be more than plain at this juncture." He turns to me, smiling cruelly. "Miss Everdeen, the final evidence of your guilt lies in the motive for this crime—"

"I had no reason to kill Mr. Crane," I interject, openly glowering at him.

"No reason, you say?" he mocks. "Let me ask you, Miss Everdeen, what happened to Cinna?"

"Cinna?" I echo dumbly. My stomach twists fretfully; the captain's face is so confident, so spiteful. I sense he knows checkmate is near.

"Yes, Cinna. Your dear friend."

I swallow discreetly and try to keep calm. Cinna is, of course, alive and well and hiding in the hold. The captain cannot know this, or Cinna's plan to finally see the captain punished for his cruelty will be impossible to carry out.

"He died."

"He died. May I ask how he died?"

"You were there," I snap.

"Remind me," he taunts back.

"He was beaten to death, whipped until his body could not take any more." I shudder, the memory of the flogging is still so fresh in my mind. The flayed flesh, the red oozing wounds, Cinna's limp frame hanging before me. I find it is not hard to generate some tears; Cinna may be alive and safe, but how close he came to death still chills my blood.

"And who whipped him?"

"You did," I accuse.

He shakes his head. "Ah, ah. I was not the only one. Who else?"

"Mr. Crane," I mutter, closing my eyes. "But it was _your _lashes that killed him!"

"You are hardly a medical doctor, Miss Everdeen. I dare say that neither you nor I are prepared to make assumptions about what killed your precious black friend."

"Cinna—' I catch myself, realizing the present tense almost slips from my lips. I pause and begin again. "Cinna was a wonderful man. He was kind to me from the moment I boarded this ship, and I am privileged to have known him."

"A pretty little speech, Miss Everdeen." A sense of déjà vu washes over me, and it dawns on me that the captain uttered the same words to Cinna after he was ordered forward for his whipping. "Unfortunately for you, your tongue only proves my point. Mr. Cinna was your friend?"

"Yes," I say boldly, proudly.

"And when this friend of yours was beaten to death, did it not make you angry?"

I suck in a breath and exhale shakily. I clench my teeth but before I can voice my reply, the captain struts past me, arms clasped behind his back. He continues speaking. "Allow me to answer for you, Miss Everdeen. Were you not so distressed by the whipping of Mr. Cinna that you threw yourself at a defenseless Mr. Crane, and in doing so, you struck me, leaving this—" His voice drips venom as he nears the crew, pointing deliberately to the faded, white streak marring his cheek.

"He was killing him," I say, my voice tight.

"He was issuing an appropriate punishment. Or do you not recall the circumstances surrounding this crew's failed mutiny? Along with these men, your supposed brothers, Miss Everdeen, Mr. Cinna meant to kill me. Did I not have a right to issue an appropriate reprimand for such a crime?"

"Yes," I whisper sadly. "But—"

He raises a hand to silence me. "And were you not angry at me for choosing Mr. Cinna to receive said punishment?"

"Yes."

"And were you not angry at Mr. Crane for issuing the lashes of said punishment?"

"He was following your orders," I retort.

The captain smirks. "Answer the question, Miss Everdeen."

"If I was angry at you, I would have just killed you!" I shout, unable to contain the suppressed frustration, horror and futility that I am experiencing as a result of this railroading. "You are making it look as if I committed this crime when I did not!" I scream those final three words, bolting out of my seat and stamping my foot.

"Do you see, men, the temper of which this little girl is capable? Look at the murderous rage in her eyes right now!"

I settle back in my seat, crossing my arms defiantly across my chest, which heaves with the feverish breaths I am drawing in a vain effort to calm myself.

"I am prepared to announce my verdict given that the evidence against the accused has been thoroughly explained and a motive clearly established." The captain turns and paces in front of me. "But first, does anyone wish to speak on behalf of this wretched girl?"

Peeta steps to the side of the rear line and gives me a bittersweet smile. As he prepares to speak, the captain spins on his heel and raises a hand again. "Not you, Mr. Mellark. As much as I know you'd like to declare some other fib in the hopes of sparing your little girlfriend's life, you lost the right to speak when you lied under oath. Return to your place in line and keep your mouth shut unless you want me to kill her right now."

Fists furled at his sides, Peeta wordlessly slides back into his place among the crew, but he mouths a silent apology to me. I shake my head sadly and lower my chin.

It's over. The captain has won.

"I'll say somethin'." My head snaps to attention at the gravelly sound of Haymitch's voice. "I've said it before. You're a fuckin' coward, Mr. Snow. You feel like a man, goin' after a defenseless girl like her? Your ego is hurt, your pride is wounded because she fuckin' hit you? Get over it. Someone on this ship killed Mr. Crane, and you're wasting our time pursuing a petty agenda against Katniss because you hate her."

"That's enough, Mr. Abernathy," the captain warns.

Haymitch snorts and shakes his head. "You asked if anyone wanted to speak on her behalf. I'm takin' you up on your offer."

"I said that's enough. Your statement is nothing but opinion, and you have no factual evidence to back it. Miss Everdeen, do you wish to say any final words on your behalf?"

"My father—" I begin, about to express concern that my father, as the owner of this ship, would be greatly distressed at the manner in which I have been treated.

"Ah, ah, ah, Miss Everdeen," the captain chides, wiggling a finger at me as a flustered mother might scold a disobedient toddler. "I offered you a chance to hide behind your father's name and reputation earlier. You deferred that opportunity."

I blink back the tears that rapidly well in my eyes.

"It is my verdict, in the eyes of God and the judgment of this court, that you, Miss Katniss Everdeen, are guilty of the deliberate and willful murder of Mr. Seneca Crane. The penalty for such a crime is hanging, and as such, it is my sentence that at dawn, Miss Everdeen, you shall be hanged by your neck until you are dead."

"I didn't do it," I insist, willing my tears to stay away. I will not give the captain the satisfaction of knowing how broken I feel at the moment.

"The facts say otherwise, Miss Everdeen. Your trial is over." He bangs his pistol against the quarterdeck railing twice. He crosses to where I sit and roughly seizes me by the upper arm.

"I didn't do it." I insist again. He grips my arm hard, so hard that I wheeze in pain, knowing there will be fresh bruising where his fingers press into my skin.

"Keep your mouth shut," he snaps, dragging me after him. "Mr. Gloss, first watch needs to get back on duty. Mr. Mellark, I will deal with you after I return the prisoner to the brig."

And lead me back to the brig he does, my arm throbbing with pain under the vicious grasp of his hand. I think I hear Peeta screaming my name as the captain hauls me away.

Once in the hold and after fumbling with the rusty padlock once more, he throws open the gate and motions for me to go inside, finally releasing his iron grip on me. I shuffle into the cell, contemplating seating myself on the stool, but I sat for a while on deck and my legs could use a stretching.

The captain refastens the lock and tugs on it roughly, assuring himself that it is secure. He then proceeds to stand and regard me for several minutes, unblinking. I turn my back on him finally, closing my eyes.

When I open them seconds later, Captain Snow is gone and I am swallowed by the darkness. It is then I finally allow the emotional dam inside me burst, the tears that have been threatening to spill all morning finally gush forth. I sob, leaning my body against the rear bars of the brig, trembling while I spend myself of my anguish.

I am going to die.

My fingers close around my neck, probing the soft flesh there. What will it feel like, the rough fibers of the rope biting at my skin, rubbing it raw until I gasp my last breath? Will it hurt, or will it be fast? Will I feel nothing at all?

Will Peeta watch as I close my eyes for the last time?

I cry for some time before soft footsteps startle me. I hear the scraping of the bars being lifted, and Cinna is suddenly at the gap in the back of the brig, holding a small candle, and he motions for me to follow him.

We settle against a row of barrels near the deepest part of the hold, the meager light from the candle casting ghoulish shadows against the cavernous ribbing. I lean my head on Cinna's shoulder, my tears finally ebbing as he murmurs words of comfort against my hair.

"It went as you expected?" he asks gently, though it does not really sound like a question.

"He found me guilty, yes."

"And he sentenced you?"

I nod miserably, sniffling, wishing desperately I had my cursed handkerchief to blow my nose. "Hanging."

"When?"

"At dawn."

Cinna shakes his head. "Katniss, please do not fret. He will not follow through. He has you exactly where he wants you."

I sit up, my voice a hushed whisper. "He wants me hanging by my neck!"

"He wants you afraid. Terrified. He wants you pleading for his forgiveness. Begging his pardon. Then he can be the heroic gentleman who spares your life and to whom you owe a debt of gratitude."

"My death would be more gratifying to him," I grouse.

"Katniss, stop feeling sorry for yourself for a moment and think logically. Do you really think the captain will dare pull into port with your father's company's ship without you?"

"He is a very convincing liar. I'm certain he will just spin some story about me being lost at sea." Fresh tears prick at my eyes. "No one will say otherwise."

"I will."

"You cannot speak on my behalf. You would ruin your plans."

"I would give up our plan to save you, Katniss. I'm very sorry this happened to you."

"Thanks, Cinna," I say quietly. "I'm glad one person is on my side."

"Not one of those men spoke in your favor?" He lifts my chin to meet his eyes. "Not Mr. Mellark?" I flush, thinking about his near-confession of love under interrogation.

"He—well, he tried to confess to the murder to protect me."

"He loves you," Cinna says softly, smiling.

"He didn't say so," I hedge.

"He doesn't need to say it, Katniss. It's written all over his face anytime he looks at you." He pauses. "Do you love him?"

I consider Cinna's question. I do not know that I truly know what love is. I am just sixteen, and this is my first experience with a man. But what I do know is how it makes me feel when Peeta is near. How his just eyes on me send a shiver down my spine and raise the gooseflesh on my arms. How his touch sets my body aflame, warmth flooding my limbs and pooling in my belly. How the very thought of never seeing him again gnaws at my soul. Is that love?

"Yes." I nod slowly. "I think that I do."

"Love is a powerful emotion, Katniss. It can get you through very dark times."

"Have you ever been in love, Cinna?"

"No," he says ruefully. "Not that I know of."

We sit in contemplative silence for several moments before I find my voice again. "You really think the captain will not carry out my sentence?"

"I'd be shocked, Katniss."

"I don't want to die, Cinna."

"I know." More silence. Then he speaks. "Who do you think killed Mr. Crane, Katniss?"

"I'm certain who did it. It had to be the captain himself. In his own words, motive is a critical element in proving any crime. No one else on this ship had any kind of vendetta against Mr. Crane—"

"What about me?"

His words startle me. "You?"

"Would I not be angry with the man who whipped me?"

"Oh, Cinna, that's absurd! It's the same reasoning the captain tried to use against me. That I was angry with Mr. Crane for whipping you. But he was just following orders. You understand that too, I know you."

"Yes, you're right. So what about one of the other men?"

"No," I shake my head vehemently. "Unless there was some kind of secret altercation to which you and I were not privy, most of the men harbored their resentment against the captain. So if revenge was a motive, I cannot fathom why Captain Snow wouldn't have just been the target."

"He was our target in the mutiny."

"The mutiny I ruined," I sigh, burying my face in my hands again. "If only I hadn't listened to the captain. You would have carried out your rebellion and rid this world of a very abusive, very cruel human being."

"Katniss, you must stop blaming yourself. You could not have known."

"I should have!" I cry. "I should have listened to you. To all of you! So many of you tried to warn me. If I could change things…" I trail off.

"Enough," he scolds me. "Continue with your reasoning why you think Snow is guilty."

"It's exactly as I have just said. Everyone else on this ship would have just attacked the captain. Who is the only man who stands to gain anything from Mr. Crane being murdered instead?"

"It makes sense," Cinna nods. "But it is the most gruesome thought, that poor Mr. Crane was killed because the captain wished to take revenge on you. A human life is a human life and to think the captain had such little respect for that…"

"You all reminded me constantly of what a heinous man he is. Why should we be surprised? And perhaps he had another reason for killing Mr. Crane? One that compounded the vengeful plot?" I frown and recall once more the argument that Brutus and I overheard. I sit upright, like a crack of lightning shot down my spine. How could I forget?

"Cinna! The captain and Mr. Crane's argument, we talked about that, remember? They were arguing about the direction of the ship. Mr. Crane was pleading with the captain to reconsider." So much has happened in the last three days that I must stop to comb the recesses of my mind to remember the argument. "Mr. Crane said something about there being no profit at the bottom of the sea and it was madness to sail on. And Finnick!" I jump to my feet excitedly, jostling the barrel with my elbow on the way up.

"What about him?"

"He told us even days earlier that he thought he heard the captain and Mr. Crane arguing too!"

Cinna is quiet again. "I heard them fighting as well," he adds.

My eyes widen. "When?"

"When I came on deck to assist during the storm."

"When you saved my life!"

"Yes. I was hiding behind a barrel just below the quarterdeck, waiting to climb into the rigging to help you. It was the same argument. Mr. Crane accused him of risking the lives of all on board by not heeding his warnings and sailing away from the storm."

"Is that a serious accusation?"

"If Mr. Crane, as the first mate, and as a gentleman and a former naval officer, well, if Mr. Crane went to the admiralty courts, or even reported the captain's actions to your father's company, the owners of this ship, I imagine the captain might have been censured."

"Get revenge and get rid of a threat all in one fell swoop," I murmur. "It would be brilliant if it wasn't so sadistic."

"It takes a special kind of madness to kill a first mate of a ship in the middle of a violent storm, when every hand matters." Cinna pauses and looks up at me thoughtfully. "Did Mr. Crane call him mad?"

I think for a moment. "Yes, I believe he did. Why? What does that have to do with anything?"

"The captain is many things, Katniss. Above all else, he thinks he is a perfectly logical, perfectly rational man who is right about everything. He does not enjoy being questioned, having his authority challenged, and he most certainly dislikes being called crazy." He frowns. "Mr. Boggs said something similar when he had his arm amputated. Called the captain insane for interpreting the law literally. It fuels his ire more."

"It is still such an extreme act." I frown. "Murder. It's a commandment. It's in the Bible. During my trial he made a huge ordeal about having each man place his hand on the Bible and take an oath to tell the truth. And he kept alluding to that oath. It's what got Peeta into trouble."

"Peeta got in trouble?"

"Yes, when he tried to take the blame for the murder to spare me, the captain dismissed his confession and said he would deal with him after I was sentenced." It hits me that I do not know the ramifications of what the captain will do to Peeta. Or what he might have already done to him. "Cinna, I need to know that Peeta is okay," I whisper, my heart clenching at the notion he is being punished as we speak.

Cinna gives me a sympathetic smile and slowly rises to his feet. "I don't know how to make that possible, Katniss. You will only make things worse if you are seen out of the brig, and I cannot risk going on deck right now in daylight."

"Nothing can happen to him, Cinna."

He wraps me into a tight embrace and presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head. "It will be okay, Katniss. I promise."

"What are we going to do about the captain?"

"I'll think on it. Now it's probably best you get back in there."

I nod a silent agreement and when I am safely back inside, he replaces the bars and disappears into the murky darkness. I am left alone with my thoughts. Thoughts that cannot fixate on anything but Peeta's well being.

I deduce that it must be love if I cannot think about my own pitiful circumstances in this dire hour. He clouds my conscience, and in spite of Cinna's assurance that things will be okay, I cannot feel confident. Not for myself, and not for Peeta.

I am also physically exhausted and though a nap would most likely refresh me, there is no possible way to lie down. I would rather die than make a bed on the cold, grimy, dirty floor of the hold. The irony of the expression is not lost on me.

Finally opting to push the stool back against the rear bars of the brig, I lean back and close my eyes. I must drift off for a while because the next conscious thought I have is someone calling my name. I blink several times and rub my tired eyes. Finnick is at the gate of the brig, once again bearing a plate and a tin cup of water.

"Thought ye might be needin' somethin' t'keep yer strength up," he offers softly. I accept the plate through the bars, and Finnick's hand lingers on mine. He looks down at me, his eyes heavy with regret. "Katniss, lassie, I'm sorry."

"About what?"

"Not bein' able t'speak up more on yer behalf. I am ashamed o'meself."

"It's alright, Finnick. I can't blame any of you. I shouldn't have expected any kind of allegiance. I caused all of this, and I guess this is my punishment for what I did."

"All th'same, lassie, I feel bloody awful."

"How is Peeta?" I ask anxiously, setting the plate down on the little tray and clutching the bars nervously.

"Peeta is fine, for now." He smiles wryly. "The captain wouldn't very well imprison 'im down 'ere while ye're captive. Punishment isn't supposed t'be enjoyable, and I'm sure ye'd both find a few ways to occupy yer time." I feel my cheeks burn, but in the dim light of Finnick's lantern, I do not know if he can see the blush. "I told ye 'e 'ad feelings fer ye."

"Did you know he drew pictures of me?"

"I assumed that was some of what he was drawin'," he replies. "'e's a very talented artist. Always drawin' and sketchin' in that pad o'his on other voyages. If Peeta sees somethin' once, 'e can draw it from memory."

"So the captain isn't punishing him at all?" I ask suspiciously. Finnick shifts his weight and meets my eyes.

"Oh, 'e was punished," he says quietly. "After Captain Snow went on and on about how 'e coulda cut out 'is tongue for lyin' 'e settled fer a whipping. Two lashes."

"Poor Peeta," I whisper, desperately wishing I could have been with him to comfort him and soothe his wounds. I close my eyes and can almost picture his strong, muscular back crisscrossed with angry red welts.

"I know t'is not what ye want t'hear, Katniss, but most o'us think the captain didn't punish Peeta more severely t'day because Snow wants 'im 'avin' t'watch ye hung tomorrow, and then the captain'll punish 'im again once yer gone." Bile rises in my throat at the thought of Peeta meeting the same fate as me, his beautiful face swollen and grotesque as he dangles from a noose.

"Cinna says he will not go through with my hanging," I say quietly, my voice tremulous. "What do you think, Finnick?" His copper hair catches the scant light as he shrugs.

"If I knew how t'read that bastard's mind, lassie, we'da taken care o'im a hundred times o'er by now."

"I need to see Peeta, Finnick," I choke, my fear strangling my throat.

Finnick shakes his head again. "Not possible, lassie. Captain Snow has the mate that isn't on duty watchin' 'im. 'e's not t'be left unattended."

I pound my fist against the rusted bars with a dull thud. "Dammit!"

"I need t'go too. Captain said none of us were t'be in contact with ye. If 'e finds out I snuck ye food…"

I reach my fingers through the bars and grab Finnick's hand tightly. "Thank you, Finn."

"I'll say a prayer for ye lassie." He turns to go, and then he faces me anew. "'Tis why I couldn't straight out lie for ye, Katniss, ye know."

"What is?" I ask.

"Th'Bible. Th' oath I took. I cannot go against th'word of th'Bible. If I e'er want t' see me Annie again…"

"Oh, Finn." My heart aches for this man, this man who has been so utterly broken by love and loss.

"'Tis why I 'aven't taken me own life t'be with 'er. 'Tis a sin, ye know."

"I know," I nod. "I understand, Finnick. Go. Before you get caught."

He squeezes my hand again and quickly retreats towards the ladder. The flame goes with him, and it is dark again. And quiet. The only sound is the lapping of the bilge nearby and the ever-present moans and groans of the timbers of the ship.

I cannot prevent my thoughts from drifting to Peeta, and hot tears prick at my eyes when I consider what Finnick said. Will the next time I see him, this man who has my heart, be while the captain is fastening a noose around my neck? Will I never feel his arms around me again, his lips on mine? Will I never be able to give myself to him in the way a man and a woman should be together?

I cry quietly, for lack of anything else to do to purge these emotions that are overwhelming me. I wonder if it's possible to run out of tears.

"Katniss?" I hear from the darkness behind me.

"Cinna?"

"I think I have the answer." He appears in front of the brig, so I return to the bars and face him.

"What answer?"

"The answer to what we need to do. To save you. To expose the captain." He pauses.

"Well?" I press, curiosity piqued, I lean forward to rest my forehead on the bars. He closes the distance until I can practically feel his breath, warm against my clammy skin.

"We need to finish what we started. We need to mutiny."

Blinking rapidly, I cannot prevent my jaw from dropping. "Cinna, are you serious? How can we mutiny?"

"Perhaps mutiny is too strong a word. We must confront the captain with our suspicions. Get him to confess to the crime he committed and framed you for."

"You said yourself that the captain does not like to be wrong. How can you possibly think he will admit to the atrocities he has compiled against us?" I cannot believe this is Cinna's grand plan. This is what he has been contemplating in the dark while I lament my fate?

"If he is forced to confess—"

"He's too powerful, Cinna! We have no weapons left. Mr. Cinna gathered them after the last failed rebellion. Not to mention the captain has an entire arsenal of muskets at his disposal."

"Locked, no doubt in that iron safe of his," Cinna adds, doubt coloring his previously optimistic tone.

"Locked," I murmur. A jolt of excitement hits me. "Locked!" I repeat again.

"Katniss, what are you getting at?"

"You said it yourself, Cinna." I dash to the rotten sockets and yank the two bars from their place, slipping through the gap to rush to Cinna's side. "A sailor knows his ship." I smile triumphantly. "I know where he keeps the key."

"You do?" he whispers incredulous, those luminous golden eyes widening.

"Yes," I nod vigorously. "When I visited his cabin to report on the round robin and he and Mr. Crane armed themselves to quell the rebellion, I watched him pluck it from the back of a portrait of his granddaughter that hangs above his chair."

"We looked everywhere for that damned key," Cinna exhales. "Never did I think to look there. None of us did. Clever." He shakes his head.

"So how do we get into his cabin and get that key?" I pace nervously in front of Cinna, my mind racing with the possibilities of how this might all play out. The dark cloud that been hovering over me as recently as within the hour has parted slightly, and a ray of hope gleams faintly.

Cinna clears his throat. "Katniss, you could get it."

I stop my pacing and stare at him dumbly. "What?"

"You could get it," he repeats evenly.

"Cinna, how am I supposed to get it? I am supposed to be imprisoned here!"

"Exactly. No one will suspect you. And you know precisely where it is, so you would be quick."

"It's ludicrous!" I cry. "What if I am caught?"

Cinna studies me carefully. "Can he really impose a more severe punishment on you than you've already been sentenced to?"

My stomach twists painfully at the gruesome reality in his statement. It is perfect logic, really. But it does not make the task any easier. "If I manage to secure the key, what then?"

"I assume the men will gladly sign another round robin to rebel once more."

"We cannot execute this plan on an assumption, Cinna," I hiss. "I have less than twenty-four hours left to live."

"All the more reason why the risks are worth taking, Katniss."

I close my eyes and enter an internal debate with myself over the probability that this far-fetched scheme will actually yield a favorable result for us. It is I who will be in the greatest danger, and I cannot shake the morbid thought that should I be captured, the captain would find cause to execute me on the spot. I shudder at the notion I could suffer the same fate as poor Mr. Boggs. And poor Mr. Crane.

"We need a third person," I finally state, pressing my lips together. "I will do it, Cinna, but someone needs to detain the captain elsewhere. Ensure that he will not be anywhere near his cabin when I sneak on deck."

"Katniss, how—" he begins, but I raise my hand and he ceases.

"You will have to take a risk as well," I explain. "The whole crew knows you are alive. It's only the captain who is not aware that you are not bound in a hammock at the bottom of the ocean somewhere. So, Cinna, you will need to find someone to assist us and detain the captain."

"Had I thought of this a few minutes earlier, we probably could have asked Finnick."

"Timing is everything," I lament. "Go quickly, before I lose my nerve."

Cinna hesitates, then gestures for me to return to the confines of the brig. I oblige, and he replaces the bars. "I'll return as fast as I can," he promises.

I sink to the stool and bury my face in my hands, massaging my temples with the pads of my fingertips as I wait.

Would this work?

It can only be minutes that Cinna is gone, but the wait is excruciating and the seconds tick by like hours. Perhaps living on borrowed time complicates the matter.

I begin to count, slowly, to keep my mind from drifting to thoughts that will no doubt cause me distress: Peeta. My parents. My sister. Growing old. Peeta.

I have just reached two hundred six when a weak glow appears at the far end of the hold where the ladder is. I jump from my perch on the stool and cross to the bars, squinting into the dimness until two figures emerge, silhouetted by the flickering flame.

Cinna. With him, to my dismay, is Mr. Thread.

Of all the men who Cinna might have chosen, Mr. Thread would not have been near the top of my list. I surmise I may only have wished less to see Cato or Marvel. I admit to myself I had been hoping for Haymitch.

Although Mr. Thread has just cause to want revenge on the captain as well. Was he not demoted from his post as second mate after the debacle that was the original mutiny and Cinna's beating? The realization kindles the hope that Mr. Thread may not be so bad of an option.

"Miss Everdeen, Cinna has updated me on your theory that the captain killed Mr. Crane," he starts in a raspy whisper. I don't think that I have ever heard the man speak clearly. Miss Trinket would have detested his enunciation, or lack thereof.

"And of my innocence," I declare firmly.

Mr. Thread nods. "Aye, he has always been convinced of your character and your sense of justice. Even when you were informing upon us." A surge of shame and anger briefly washes over me at his accusation.

"I did what I thought was right at the time," I affirm. "I would like to think I have more than made amends for what I now realize was an egregious error."

"Aye, Miss Everdeen, you have been a reputable member of this crew since the day Cinna supposedly died. Maybe Cinna was right about you."

"What do you think about the murder, Mr. Thread? Honestly?"

Mr. Thread and Cinna exchange a pointed look.

"The captain is a vengeful man, Miss Everdeen. I am evidence of his wrath as well."

"Your demotion," I supply. He nods.

"My offense was a minor one. But he saw my participation in Cinna's funeral as a breech of loyalty, and he acted swiftly."

"Do you think he is capable of committing such a heinous act to seek revenge upon me?"

"Yes, actually, I think it's entirely possible. You shamed him, Miss Everdeen, when you struck him with that whip. You not only challenged his authority by protesting Cinna's punishment, you also undermined his masculinity in front of the entire crew. None of us have ever managed to lay a finger on him for all our efforts, and with one quick flick of your wrist, you managed it. A girl!"

Cinna and I begin to detail to Mr. Thread the plan to get the key and force the captain's hand. He listens raptly and emits a low whistle when I reveal that I know the location of the long-sought-after key.

"It's her only chance, Romulus, if indeed Snow intends to follow through with her sentence. I have doubts that he will, but she cannot take that risk," Cinna adds.

Mr. Thread heaves a great sigh and replies with a lengthy diatribe about the captain being true to his word and when Cinna explains his own theory about the captain issuing me an eleventh hour reprieve and playing hero, Mr. Thread laughs bitterly.

"I would not place stock in Cinna's hunch, Miss Everdeen. We are but four or five days from land. If the captain wants to be rid of you, he'll carry out your sentence swiftly."

"Your role in this is simple. Detain the captain so the girl can sneak into his cabin and obtain that key," Cinna clarifies.

"And when she has the key?'

"She will get it to me. I'll wait in top cargo, and once I have it, I'll get word to you. Then you can round up the rest of the crew, the ones who signed the initial round robin."

"And then?" Mr. Thread probes.

"We rise again." Cinna tents his long fingers before him and gives Mr. Thread a fixed look.

Mr. Thread's expression goes slack. His eyes shift from Cinna to me and back to Cinna. From his nervous bouncing from foot to foot, it is evident he is uncertain about our proposal. No doubt he is considering how severely he might be reprimanded should we fail again. I let my eyes drift upward and utter a silent prayer that failure should not be in the cards this time.

"I guess it is the only choice we have," Mr. Thread murmurs hesitantly.

Cinna claps his hands in restrained delight, and he and Mr. Thread begin to discuss the best way to proceed from here.

Mr. Thread expresses a desire to wait until after midwatch begins, arguing that the captain can easily be roused from his sleep with some kind of feigned emergency. He also adds that the darkness of midnight will shroud our movements and prevent Cinna or me from being seen inadvertently.

"I disagree," Cinna protests. "The sooner we act, the better. Did we not learn last time that we were too thorough, too careful with our timing?"

I sit quietly, picking at a ragged cuticle on my thumb while I listen absently to the back-and-forth of their debate. I tend to side with Cinna, not because I like and respect him more, but rather because I fear the longer I am forced to wait, the more anxious I will become and chicken out. Though like Mr. Thread, I do worry the sun's rays will not aide our mission.

Finally the men decide immediate action will be preferable, and Mr. Thread extends his hand towards me to seal our pact. His gnarled hand pumps mine twice, and I cannot explain the frisson of dread that sizzles down my spine at the touch. Cinna also shakes the former second mate's hand, and then Mr. Thread makes his way out of the hold, our fates tenuously held in his grasp. His intention is to locate the captain, distract him and get word to a hidden Cinna that the coast is clear for me to attempt phase two of the plan.

Cinna bids me farewell, no need for drawn out words to be exchanged between us. He simply wraps me into his arms and hugs me tight.

"I'm betting on you, Katniss."

And then he, too, is gone, and I am left alone. To wonder. To worry.

To wait.

* * *

_Please let me know what you thought of this chapter...I especially love hearing your theories as to what is coming next! _

_Thanks for reading. :)_


	17. Chapter 17

_**Author's Note: **_ Ah! We've reached the climax of the story. I can't tell you how humbled I am by the response to this story. I appreciate the time readers take to leave reviews and show their support with follows and favorites. Please know that seeing those alerts in my email tells me how much you're enjoying the story and that there are people reading, something that all authors appreciate. So thank you.

To RynMar and jeeno2, thank you for your support.

And this chapter is dedicated to the incomparable IzzySamson. If you're not reading _In Name Only, _you should be! Happy Birthday my friend. Sorry all the smut is in the next chapter.

THG belongs to Suzanne Collins, CD belongs to Avi.

Here we go!

* * *

While I wait, nibbling my already-ragged fingernails, my thoughts wander to the news Mr. Thread shared: we are just days from docking in Philadelphia. Will I be there to see the shore? Will I set foot on solid ground again?

Alarm rises in me when I consider that I will be saying goodbye to Peeta Mellark either way.

By my estimation, not more than twenty minutes or so pass before a noise distracts me and I am greeted by the sight of Cinna, a sputtering candle in his left hand. "Katniss, it's time. Thread says the captain is at the bowsprit inspecting the figurehead."

I nod and contort my body through the hole in the brig for what I hope will be the final time. Cinna squeezes my hand as we ascend the ladder to top cargo, his hand carefully shielding the flame. Together we creep through the space to the ladder at the rear, which leads directly to steerage.

"This is it," he breathes quietly. Another squeeze of my hand, and he passes me the candle.

"How long do you think I have?"

"Be fast, Katniss. There is no telling how long Thread will be able to keep the captain away from this end of the ship."

"And you?"

"I'll be waiting here for the key, just as we discussed."

"What about the rest of the crew?"

"Thread says they are waiting my command. Says they are all resigned to try again."

"I'm scared, Cinna," I whisper.

"I know you are. You wouldn't be human if you weren't frightened. But have hope, Katniss. Hope trumps fear every time. Hope that you succeed, hope that we can pull this off, and hope that when this ship docks in a few days' time, you are there to greet your parents and your precious sister and never think about this dreadful ship again."

"I cannot promise I'll never think of you again, Cinna."

"I didn't say me," he winks. "I said this cursed ship. Now go."

I greedily suck in a breath, steeling my nerves, trying desperately to ignore the galloping of my heart against my rib cage. I press on, leaving Cinna behind. Sheltering the dying ends of the candle from view, I tiptoe towards the captain's cabin door. Reaching for the handle, I retract my hand quickly as if it was aflame, getting my bearings once more before I try anew.

I push, and the door creaks open, the afternoon sun streaming in through the portholes. A sweep of my eyes around the cabin reveals a sight much like that I was first met with so many days ago. A sight complete with Captain Snow seated in his armchair beside the little table under the portrait of his granddaughter. The once-vibrant red roses are withered and dead, their crinkled petals scattered everywhere. His cold eyes gleam wickedly and a devious smile tilts his lips upward. "Miss Everdeen. Please, do come in. I've been expecting you."

I can only gape in disbelief at the man sitting before me. My incredulity quickly yields to horror and then to dismay. My breath catches between my lungs and my throat, and I shake my head slowly, heart pounding and stomach knotting anew.

Like a mouse in a trap, I am caught. He knew I was coming, always one step ahead. "You knew?" I stammer, bracing a palm against the doorframe to steady my trembling legs. He smirks knowingly and nods. "You knew." This time, it is not a question.

"A captain knows everything about his ship, Miss Everdeen. I told you that many times before. You, apparently, are not as fast a learner as you boast to be."

"How? How did you know?"

"Come, come, Miss Everdeen. You are cleverer than that."

I shake my head more deliberately. Perhaps it is my complete and total shock that is obscuring my senses, but I am at a loss for words and at an even deeper loss to comprehend how he managed to outsmart me.

"You really have no idea?" he taunts, folding his hands neatly across his lap.

"No, I don't."

A sudden pitch of the ship throws me off balance, and the cabin door slams shut, leaving me alone with this man whose hatred for me is blatant in his icy blue eyes.

"Come, have a seat, Miss Everdeen. It is really quite an enjoyable story."

"No, thank you," I choke, bracing my body flat against the paneled door.

He shrugs. "Suit yourself."

"How did you know?" I demand, finally finding my voice and wheezing out the words.

"Mr. Thread."

"Mr. Thread?" My heart sinks rapidly as I parrot the name. The captain smiles broadly and leans forward in his chair.

"Mr. Thread has been the most dutiful mate a captain could ask for. He has shared every last detail about this voyage with me. I knew about the crew, how they tried to keep the other passengers off, how they cautioned you when you boarded the ship, how they planned to rebel and overthrow me. How they kept Mr. Boggs hidden after they helped him stowaway on board."

"You demoted him!"

"An ingenious ploy on my part, no? What better way to keep an even closer eye on an unruly and defeated crew than to plant a mole right among you? Mr. Thread was more than willing to do my bidding when I proposed the idea."

"No," I whisper sadly, betrayal deluging my entire being. Mr. Thread had shaken my hand. He had promised. My blood boils in my veins, anger swiftly suppressing my sorrow.

"Oh yes. I know everything, Miss Everdeen. You know what else I know about?"

I bite my lip, shaking my head dumbly.

"I know all about your precious friend, Cinna. I know he is alive and well and hiding in the hold with the ridiculous notion that he will report on me once we dock in Philadelphia. I shall deal with him once I am rid of you."

"You really intend to kill me!" I shrill, my voice rising.

"I sentenced you, Miss Everdeen. Unlike you, I am not a liar. I fulfill my promises."

"But I didn't commit the crime for which you are sentencing me!"

"You had a trial. It was fair."

"I didn't kill Mr. Crane!"

"The verdict says otherwise, Miss Everdeen. And now it is my duty to uphold justice for Mr. Crane and carry out the hanging of his killer. You."

"Why do you hate me so?" I plead. I did not realize it was possible for one human being to harbor such animosity, such absolute hostility towards another. Nor did I ever think such emotions would be directed at _me_.

"Ah. Such a simple question. Such a loaded answer." He leans over and pats the empty chair beside him. "It really would be best if you took a seat."

"I don't wish to come any closer to you," I retort, crossing my arms across my chest obstinately.

"You wish to know why I despise you so much, Miss Everdeen. Fine. I shall enlighten you. I hate you, Miss Everdeen, because you give these scurrilous dogs hope."

"Hope?" The word tastes strange on my tongue, stranger than when Cinna spoke to me of it no more than an hour ago. It is not the answer I am anticipating from this villain.

"Hope," he repeats, spitting the word from his mouth as if it is poison.

"I don't follow you."

"When you boarded this ship, Miss Everdeen, you were the very picture of what an educated, well-mannered young lady should be. I had high expectations that you would keep to your place and not interfere with my ship. And at first, you did.

"But to my distress, the more time you spent with these ruffians, the more you seemed to enjoy it. You began to question your place, and in turn, they began to question their places—"

"That's hardly what happened!" I cry. "They were questioning you and your ability to properly captain this ship. My presence had nothing to do with any sudden changes in their behavior or their plot to revolt. That was all planned before you ever heard my name!"

"That does not matter, Miss Everdeen. As soon as you started mingling with them, you lowered yourself. And if a refined young lady can slide down the social ladder, then what prevents these men from thinking they cannot ascend it? That they cannot aspire to be more?"

"I was doing as you asked! You told me to read to them! You encouraged me to listen to them!" My frustration mounts rapidly as he continues to assault my character, an assault that is completely unfounded.

"I don't recall asking you to throw yourself at Mr. Mellark," he says snidely. I flush and my traitorous body reacts to the very mention of Peeta's name.

"I did not throw myself at him!"

"I cannot imagine your parents, especially your father, Miss Everdeen, would be too pleased to know the licentious things you have been engaging in with Mr. Mellark."

I think about Peeta's lips on my neck, his hands on my breasts and my blush deepens.

"You're a stupid little girl, Miss Everdeen. A lovesick fool. It is actually rather amusing to consider you think that boy has genuine feelings for you."

"He as much as said so in front of everyone," I retort, placing my hands on my hips insolently. The captain clucks his tongue and shakes his head.

"Oh, you simple thing. You really are naïve, aren't you? You don't think a man would say anything to get you right where he wants you? You don't think Mr. Mellark has whispered those same words of devotion to other girls? These sailors, Miss Everdeen, they don't respect women. They don't believe in love. A woman is nothing to them but a warm body and a fast release. Your dear Mr. Mellark has most likely had girls in every port at which we've docked."

The rational part of me knows that his words are chosen to hurt me, to manipulate me into thinking that he speaks the truth—that he knows Peeta better than I do. That he is no different from the other sailors who probably do lie down with loose women and do not give it second thought.

But there is a tiny, insecure bone somewhere in my body that fears Captain Snow is right. I tamp it down immediately. What Peeta and I share is real. I have to believe that.

"Regardless of whether his feelings for you are true or not, it will be satisfying to watch his face tomorrow morning when that noose is placed around your neck. I am rather curious to see if he will attempt any more heroics."

"Peeta is an honorable man," I spit, not even realizing I have spoken his first name until it flies from my lips. "A true gentleman!"

"Yes, I am sure your parents would approve of a runaway urchin defiling their daughter."

"I don't have to justify myself or my relationship with Mr. Mellark to you." I pause. "And you can refrain from pretending you know the slightest thing about my father. You are not fit to polish his boots."

"On the contrary, Miss Everdeen. I assure you that your father and I are more alike than you could possibly imagine. You were a little girl when you left the comforts of your home. You will be returning home to him a young lady, and I guarantee you he has lofty expectations for you."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Oh, I will be returning home now? You said you were going to keep your promise to hang me."

"No more semantics, Miss Everdeen. No more games," the captain intones, rising from his chair and pacing in front of it. "I pride myself on being a fair man, so I am going to offer you one last chance to spare your life."

"I do not want your pity!" I shout. "You are anything but a fair man! I did not commit that murder! You did!" The accusation tumbles out before I can suppress it, but once it hangs between us, I feel infinitely lighter.

His stony countenance stares back at me, unflinching for several moments before he emits a low, menacing laugh and strokes his beard. "If only you had thought to accuse me during your trial, Miss Everdeen."

"You never asked me who I thought killed Mr. Crane! You asked me if I wished to accuse anyone else, and I did not have any evidence to support it."

"Direct questioning did not stop you from running your mouth several times during your trial," he snaps back.

"You never would have confessed!" I yell. "You set everything in place perfectly to make my guilt evident."

He does not reply immediately. Finally after several minutes of weighty silence, he cracks his knuckles and locks those arctic eyes on me. "Ask me, then."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Ask me. Go ahead."

"Did you kill Mr. Crane?" I pronounce each word carefully, holding my breath after the final syllable.

"I did."

I release the breath in a shudder, a strange mix of relief and renewed fear sluicing through my veins. "Why?" I whisper. "How could you take that poor man's life just to make an example of me?"

"Do not flatter yourself, Miss Everdeen. The idea to place the blame on you came after I killed him, not as a means to do so. Your initial dutifulness made it so easy. The dirk was right where you told me you'd placed it and the handkerchief you'd wrapped around it was just a stroke of luck in my favor."

"But why kill him?" I repeat, wrapping my arms around myself in a lame attempt to control my trembling.

"He threatened to go to the authorities. Accused me of endangering this ship and all the pathetic lives on it. He had no right to question my power and my rights as the master of this ship."

"During the storm, you mean?"

"During the storm. Before the storm. Honestly, Miss Everdeen, after the third time he accused me it was enough."

"So you killed him!"

He shrugs. "I would have brought him up on charges of impertinence and found him guilty any way. I spared him the humiliation of a trial and having his good name dragged through the proverbial mud."

"During my trial you made such a big deal about oaths and the word of God and the Bible. You took another man's life!" I cry. "That's a sin! It's a commandment—thou shalt not kill!"

The captain shrugs again. His cavalier attitude appalls me. "It was my right to take his life. Just as it was my right to take Mr. Boggs's arm. Do not pretend you understand the ways of the sea, Miss Everdeen."

"I do not need to! Murder is wrong anywhere it is committed!" I frown and narrow my eyes again until they are mere slits. "I will not take the fall for your sins."

"Ah, ah, Miss Everdeen. Now we are getting somewhere." A crafty grin spreads across his wrinkled face. I stand silent, regarding him suspiciously. He crosses to the cabinet beside his iron safe and withdraws a bundle, which he tosses at my feet.

I lean down to inspect it and I see that it is clothing. My clothing, unblemished and perfectly pressed, several crinkly sheets of tissue paper still around it. Garments that never left the security of my trunk, having been preserved as proper attire for disembarkation in Philadelphia. A dress. Stockings. Soft leather boots. Starched white gloves. A bonnet.

"Put them on. Burn those vile things you have been prancing around in for weeks and claim your proper station, Miss Everdeen. Once you are a young lady again, all you need do is beg for my forgiveness in front of your former crew, and you have my word, I will pardon you and you shall return home to your family."

"You shall pardon _me_ for _your_ crime?" I reply sarcastically.

"It is a mutually beneficial arrangement, is it not?" He laughs. "The crew, Miss Everdeen, they do not care about you. They don't care if you are a murderess or not. In fact, perhaps it elevates you more in their eyes, makes you a little romantic, like Lady Macbeth."

"I very much doubt the crew knows Shakespeare," I snap.

"No matter. No one on this ship will ever lay eyes on you again, so both our characters shall be restored and our lives will proceed as normal. Your father and his company and their collective reputations will be spared the scandal that you will unleash if you do not accept my offer."

My heart clenches painfully at the notion that I shall never again see the men I have come to love as brothers. Cinna. Haymitch. Finnick. And Peeta. An entirely different kind of love. An all-consuming one.

"Do we have a deal, Miss Everdeen?"

"I will not beg you for anything!"

"You're being stubborn. It's this or the noose, stupid girl."

"Wrong. If this damned voyage has taught me anything, it is that I have a voice and I can make my own decisions."

With that, I grab for the handle and fling open the door, racing from the cabin through steerage as fast as my weakened legs will carry me. I hear the captain curse loudly behind me, and I wonder if he is rummaging through his cabinet, arming himself again.

I must reach top cargo. I must tell Cinna about Mr. Thread. I must tell the others.

"Come back here you goddamn brat!" The captain's rage bellows off the walls, and I gasp as I smash hard into something.

"Katniss, what the…?"

Peeta! I launch myself into his arms, drawing myself against his strong chest for a bone-crushing embrace and then just as quickly, I step back, my own chest heaving from my fevered dash.

"The captain. He killed Mr. Crane."

"Katniss, shh. Calm down."

"No!" I scream. "He's coming after me. We have to find Cinna. Mr. Thread, he's a traitor. He's been informing upon you all this entire journey." Peeta's eyes widen in shock, and he grips my hand tightly.

"Where is Cinna?"

"He was waiting in top cargo for the key. The key to Captain Snow's safe."

"Why would you have the key?"

Now it is my turn to enlarge my eyes in horror. "He never told you," I breathe, my heart hammering frantically. "Thread never told all of you!" I shake my head forcefully. "You have to go, Peeta. You have to tell the others."

"Tell the others what? Katniss, you're scaring me. What is wrong?"

"Run," I hiss, hearing the loud footfalls approaching. I grab his hand and pull him behind me as my mind races to consider what my next move is.

There is truly no place to hide on a ship.

Without realizing it, I skid to a halt in front of my old cabin. Peeta just manages to stop before crashing into me, and we duck inside the pitch-black closet.

"Katniss, what is going on?" His voice is a hushed whisper. I feel through the air until my hands find purchase on his arms, and I let my fingers climb his skin until I cling to his shoulders and he draws me to him.

"I…Captain Snow…Cinna…" My words come in short bursts, in between the gulps for air.

"Shh," he murmurs against my hair. "Start at the beginning."

"We don't have much time, Peeta! Captain Snow, he killed Mr. Crane."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes!" I cry. "He confessed to me. He said Mr. Crane was going to report him to the authorities for sailing into the hurricane, and so the captain killed him to keep him quiet. And for challenging his authority."

"That's…that's madness," Peeta says quietly.

"I know! And then he had the idea to frame me, to punish me for undermining him in front of all of you."

"Oh, Katniss." His lips find the crown of my head, and they linger there for several moments. "You're safe now."

"No, I'm not! We're not! We're in more danger now!" My hysteria is escalating, and it's a marked effort to keep my voice quiet.

I quickly explain the whole plan that Cinna and I had concocted: how Mr. Thread had been chosen to detain the captain, how he betrayed us, and how it came to be that I was caught in the captain's quarters, where he had been eagerly awaiting my arrival. The entire time I am relaying the ordeal, Peeta's hands gently caress my back, occasionally rising to massage the nape of my neck.

"Thread? Really?" He sounds incredulous. "What a traitor!" He pauses, and his fingers ghost along my spine. "Is Cinna still in top cargo?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But if the captain is not outside this cabin, waiting to strike, there is a better than good chance that he ventured off in search of him."

Peeta does not speak for several moments, and in the silence, I can hear his heart beating wildly and feel the rapid vibration against my cheek. I jump suddenly as his thumb trails along my other cheek, resting on my chin to angle it up. The complete blackness of the cabin heightens all my senses, and in spite of the tense situation, my body cannot control itself from thrumming with electricity being held so closely against his.

"Katniss, you need to go find Haymitch. Other than me, he was the most convinced of your innocence even without this new information. I'll go to top cargo in search of Cinna."

"You can't leave me," I beg, my fingers clawing at his shirt. His warm lips press softly against my damp forehead.

"I'm not leaving you," he whispers tenderly. "It's temporary. You said it yourself. We need to tell Cinna. And Haymitch will believe you. If anyone can rally the rest of the men, it's him."

And then I feel his heated mouth on mine, and I return his kiss readily, my hands tangling in his blond curls while his fingers traverse the length of my sides, settling on the small of my back. Our tongues tangle, reacquainting themselves, and the intensity of the embrace causes my body to hum with anticipation.

When he breaks away, we are both breathless. "I had to do that," he says roughly. It is the same thing he said to me in the galley after he informed me about the captain's accusations. It almost sounds like an apology, and I wish more than anything I could see that beautiful face of his.

"It might be the last time if Captain Snow has his way."

"Don't you dare talk like that, Katniss. You are not going to die. Now let's go."

His left hand finds mine in the dark, our sweaty palms clinging to each other as he slowly pushes open the cabin door. There is no one visible in the immediate vicinity. No one, particularly the captain, lurking nearby.

"Haymitch is on watch. Or he should be. Get to the deck as quickly as possible. I will find you after I locate Cinna." He kisses me again, gives me a reassuring smile, and drops my hand, sprinting off in the direction of the central cargo hatch.

I inhale and exhale deeply a few times, trying to regulate my breathing both from my anxiety and my fevered response to Peeta's advances. I finally muster enough energy to scurry to the steps and mount them to the main deck.

Once my eyes adjust to the dazzling bright of the midday sun, I scan the deck and my jaw hangs limply in distress. The captain stands before me, aiming a pistol in my direction. Behind him, I see Cinna, his arms bound behind his back, being restrained by Mr. Thread.

"Miss Everdeen. About damned time. I'd wondered where you'd run off to."

I can only gawk in reply, my eyes meeting Cinna, who looks as broken as I've seen him. The anguished expression on his kind face tugs at my heartstrings. He shakes his head, which earns him a sharp elbow to the side from Mr. Thread.

"Now do you believe me how dangerous this girl is?" the captain shouts, wielding the pistol and waving it to punctuate his words.

I am uncertain to whom he is speaking until I allow myself to turn about and I notice the crew has assembled, some near the forecastle deck, others closer to the quarterdeck. My heart begins to beat erratically, the deck spinning wildly as I feel faint and a wave of nausea swells in the pit of my stomach, threatening to crest upward into my esophagus.

I finally notice Haymitch at the back of the quarterdeck. He has been at the wheel. He presses a finger to his lips and gives me a secretive smile. One hand is wrenched behind his back, shielded from prying eyes. My heart skips a beat.

"This girl, this convicted felon, crept into my cabin just moments ago. She intended to steal the key to my safe, secure the muskets inside and murder me just as she did Mr. Crane!"

"He's lying!" I call, my voice strangely calm and clear amidst the chaos.

"Furthermore, your former crewmate, Cinna, has aided and abetted this murderess. It was he who freed her from the secure confines of the brig and encouraged her to assault me."

"He's lying!" I repeat, taking two steps forward, two steps closer to the pistol pointing directly at me. "It is he who killed Mr. Crane. He told me so himself!"

"Who are they going to believe?" the captain snarls, spittle flying. "You? No one was willing to speak on your behalf before! What makes you think they'll defend you now?"

"I believe her," Cinna states. Mr. Thread tightens the rope binding his wrists, and Cinna's mouth twists in pain.

"You're as guilty as she, and I shall see it that the yardarm hangs two nooses at dawn!"

At that moment, Peeta bursts onto the deck, panting, and his handsome visage clouds with dread as he takes in the scene that has unfolded in his absence.

"Don't take another step, Mr. Mellark!" the captain orders. I crane my neck over my shoulder and give Peeta a sad smile. His eyes mirror mine.

"The captain is the one who is lying to you," I implore, carefully making eye contact with each crew member.

I point at Mr. Thread. "And Mr. Thread over there has betrayed you. He has been informing upon you since the first day we set sail. Every single move you made, every conversation you had, every last detail of the mutiny…the captain knew them all because of him!" The second mate's face blanches at the accusation.

"Liar!" the captain rages, leveling the pistol at me.

"It's true!" I cry hoarsely. "And the captain killed Mr. Crane because he feared retribution. Mr. Crane threatened to go to the admiralty courts once we landed to report the captain's reckless decision to sail into that storm."

"Miss Everdeen, shut your mouth!"

"You heard them arguing, Finnick! You told us so. And you, Brutus, you were with me when we heard a similar row! You know I am right!"

Finnick and Brutus exchange a glance. And to my relief, they both nod.

"I wish you had fallen from the royal yard weeks ago and broken your fucking neck," the captain hisses, advancing upon me. "It would have saved all of us the time and trouble of dealing with you, you disrespectful little bitch." He cocks the pistol at me. His finger twitches on the trigger.

And then he pulls it.

I scream. Peeta lunges at me, knocking us both to the deck. His weight presses down on me, his body shielding me from the bullet that never comes.

"Fuck!" Out of the corner of my eye, I see the captain struggling with the jammed hammer of the pistol.

Peeta and I struggle to our feet, and he whispers in my ear as we stand. "Go. Get to the forecastle deck. Get out of the way. Now." I search his eyes. "Trust me, Katniss," he hisses. I nod. Because I do—I trust this man with my life. He _is_ my life.

I obediently dash across the deck, taking the steps two at a time as the captain throws his useless weapon to the deck with a dull thud. He begins to chase me.

"Mr. Thread, leave the other prisoner. Bring me your pistol!" Captain Snow yells over his shoulder.

No sooner has Mr. Thread taken a step away from Cinna into the center of the deck than a loud crack splits the air. The captain halts and spins to face the noise.

Mr. Thread's body jerks with a heaving spasm and crashes to the deck. As he falls, I see Haymitch lower a spent musket and jog down the steps from the quarterdeck.

"Fuckin' traitor," he curses, spitting on Mr. Thread's lifeless corpse as he walks across the deck, closing the gap between himself and the captain.

I stand, gasping for breath, between Finnick and Brutus atop the forecastle deck. Together, the three of us watch, unmoving, as Haymitch reaches for another musket leaning against a barrel. He grabs it and wields it diagonally across his body.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you like the fuckin' animal you are," he growls.

The captain, to my surprise, throws back his head and emits a strangled burst of laughter. "You are all so stupid. You cannot possibly believe the word of a girl over me! A girl! How could you betray each other like this?"

"She did not start this, Snow. You did," Haymitch replies coldly. "And now, we finish what we started." His finger curls over the trigger.

"Haymitch, don't!" I clap a hand over my mouth. Did I really just say that?

"Why not, sweetheart?"

"Because then you're no better than he is," I state simply.

"Betrayal is not something I take likely, Katniss. This has been a long time coming."

I sense that Haymitch is not just referring to the mutiny and the wrongs committed against Mr. Boggs and Mr. Crane. He continues speaking.

"No more do we need to be treated like dogs, like we are miles below you just because we are sailors and not fuckin' officers. I coulda been second mate. I've got the experience. Hell, I coulda been first mate. But you, Captain Snow, you've seen to it that I've been blackballed by every captain in the states, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the captain replies smoothly. He is remarkably calm for having a musket pointed directly at him.

"You sure as fuck do," Haymitch roars. "Because I spoke in favor of Boggs last summer. A lot of good it did."

"Betrayal is not something I take likely, Mr. Abernathy. Your words, not mine," he smirks, inching backwards towards the forecastle deck.

Without warning, the captain spins and bolts for the stairs just below where I stand. Finnick and Brutus both move to guard me, but impulse overtakes me and I race across the deck to the bowsprit.

Another booming crack is followed by the splintering of wood and loud curses, presumably from Finnick and Brutus.

My shoulders hit the railing beside the forepeak as I run out of space. I hear my name being shouted in a cacophony of timbres, but the only one I filter out of the din is the voice belonging to the seething man before me.

Captain Snow shakes his head. "Miss Everdeen, if only you had just kept to your place."

I do not know from where I draw the strength, but I pivot and haul myself atop the railing just as he vaults towards me, his flailing fingers missing my bare feet by inches.

"You needn't fret, Miss Everdeen. I will ensure that your parents are told quite a sorrowful story about your demise. Sickness, perhaps? An accident? Drowning during the hurricane? I'll even let you choose! You'll be afforded an honorable death, you have my word."

"Your word is worth nothing," I spit down at him, my fingers curling about the jibs above my head.

"Regretfully," he continues, "I shall not be able to see your body home. Too many potential questions. But I'll offer you this: how about I let your lover open the gate when we push your corpse overboard?"

"Go to hell!" I shout, heart drumming wildly and fear surging through me again as he makes a motion to climb the railing.

Panicked, I know my only escape is the bowsprit itself. He'll dare not pursue me out there. I am at least one-third his age and considerably tinier, and although balance has never been my strong suit, I've worked on the figurehead more times than I can count, courtesy of the madman in pursuit of me.

I say a quick prayer and grasp the back rope, edging my quaking toes onto the bowsprit. The ship plunges and sea spray splashes my feet.

The captain scrambles onto the rail, surprisingly spry for an older man. His eyes glitter maliciously as he reaches inside his jacket and withdraws a knife, its gleaming steel blade flashing in the sun.

"Shit!" I keep sliding my feet sideways, the cresting sea nipping at my toes as the captain mounts the bowsprit. He clenches the knife in one hand and reaches for the back rope with the other.

My blood is liquid fire in my veins and I can only gasp for breath as I keep my eyes fixed on my predator.

"The bullet would have been much kinder, Miss Everdeen. I hope the initial wound isn't too painful and the sea swallows you quickly. I may despise you, but I do have a modicum of compassion for a child."

My fingers unexpectedly find nothing but air as the back rope ends. The captain continues his advance. As the ship ebbs again, I glance downward and make a critical decision.

It is a risk, and there is a chance that I will miss and drop into the foaming waves, but if I remain where I am, I might as well be a sitting duck. I bite my lip and drop myself to straddle the bowsprit, preparing to take the perilous leap to the figurehead. But before I can, the air above me sizzles and the captain lurches.

"What the fuck?"

As the musket ball whizzes past his nose, the small iron orb's trajectory is enough to throw the captain off-balance. The knife flies from his hand and he releases a blood-curdling scream as he tumbles past me.

I link my feet, curling my legs up and onto the bowsprit behind me, instinctively thrusting my arm down to a sputtering Captain Snow.

"Grab my hand!" I shriek over the rushing sea. He manages to seize the beak of the mockingjay figurehead, and he begins to stretch towards my extended arm.

"Don't you fuckin' spare him, Katniss!"

"I have to, Haymitch. Let the court have their way with him. Justice will be served!"

The captain's wet fingers graze mine, but as he goes to tighten his grasp on me, the ship dips and a rogue wave crashes over both of us. It soaks me to the skin and sends Captain Snow howling into the covetous sea.

Weak and shuddering, I flatten my body along the bowsprit, exhaling slow, measured breaths as I watch the captain surface once. Twice. And then no more. I let out a breath I have been holding.

"You did it, sweetheart," Haymitch cries elatedly. "C'mon, get down here."

I slither backwards along the bowsprit until my feet hit the forepeak and arms yank me from my perch, swinging me through the air and enveloping me in a firm embrace.

"You did it, sweetheart," Haymitch murmurs again as he holds me, his arms allowing my tremors to subside. He lifts his chin from the crown of my head and pivots me backward, into Peeta's waiting arms.

* * *

_A/N-So there you have it. I would love to hear what you think of this resolution—but rest assured, there are still several chapters left, and let's just say the next two fully earn the M rating that you've (hopefully) been waiting for. _

_Thank you again for reading._


	18. Chapter 18

_**Author's Note-**Warning! M rating in full effect...awkward virgin smut ahead. The remainder of the author's notes will come at the end of this chapter._

* * *

The rest of the afternoon is a blur. The crew celebrates me heartily, but truth be told, Haymitch deserves as much commendation as I do, if not more. After all, he was the one who managed to swipe the muskets from Snow's safe (when I asked him how he got the key, he merely smirked and reminded me of my penchance for eavesdropping) and he saved my life by firing the shot that sent the captain overboard. He receives his due when the men caucus and vote him their captain for the duration of the voyage. Cinna is restored to his previous post as cook, and Peeta returns to my watch, filling Haymitch's vacated role. Gloss completes the other watch.

When it comes time to record the deaths in the ship's log, there is little argument about what needs to be written. I pen it there in the pages myself: all three men—Mr. Crane, Mr. Thread and Captain Snow—are given valiant demises as victims of the hurricane. (I will never again look favorably upon reports of fallen heroes.) I erase Mr. Thread's demotion from the log at Haymitch's urging, lest it appear as a sinister motive that might open inquiry into the deaths. The crew makes me promise—_swear, _truthfully—should any inquest ever be made into this voyage that I will affirm the accounts I jotted down. I readily agree.

It is at my insistence that Mr. Thread is given a proper burial at sea. Haymitch and Cato both issue protestations at first, but I persuade them that it is the right thing to do. Cinna surmises there was more to the subservient obedience that Mr. Thread showed to the captain, and the speculation arises that Captain Snow may have had something on the man, and Thread was likely being blackmailed. We wrap his body in his hammock, Cinna says a solemn prayer, and his body is committed to the sea one bell into the first dog watch.

The men encourage me to take over the captain's quarters, but I kindly decline. I can't bring myself to inhabit a place that—albeit just for a few days—was last occupied by a monster. I am happy when Haymitch declares that "ghosts are bullshit" and settles himself comfortably inside. I keep my hammock in the forecastle among the men, firmly entrenched among the crew.

That evening after supper, Haymitch calls both watches on deck. (Indeed, for the remainder of the journey, he issues all orders himself and does not use a first or second mate.) A bottle of rum is passed about, and at the men's playful urgings, I imbibe in my first sips of alcohol. It burns on its way down my throat, but it creates a very pleasant warmth that spreads through my veins like a slow-kindling flame.

We are no more than forty-eight hours from arriving in port, Haymitch announces after the first round goes down quickly. Loud cheers of huzzah precede a second round of rum, which I politely decline before I silently slip from the throngs of boisterous shouts and excited chatter.

Without thinking, I head for the capstan, just below where I struggled for my life hours earlier. I lean out over the rail, glancing down at the screaming beak of the mockingjay figurehead, and when I close my eyes, I can see a crystal-clear image of the captain's fingers slipping and his body plunging into the greedy sea.

"Penny for your thoughts." Hot breath tickles my ear, and I whirl about to meet Peeta's smiling eyes.

"Hi," I murmur softly. He leans down and slants his mouth over mine. As his tongue swipes the seam of my lips and I grant him access, I can taste the rum we have just enjoyed. The alcohol has emboldened me slightly, and I suck on his tongue eagerly, earning a deep groan of approval from him.

"How did you know I was dying to get you alone?" he whispers, his lips traveling along the curve of my ear, his tongue tracing its shape eagerly. I shudder, and my flesh prickles from the sensation. I feel a slight twinge of guilt because it isn't my desire for him that drew me away from the crowd: it's my melancholy. When I do not reply immediately, Peeta's lips cease their exploration of my neck and clavicle, and he lifts my chin with his left index finger. "Hey, why so quiet?" I shake my head and lower it, avoiding his gaze so he will not see the tears glistening in my eyes. "Katniss, what's the matter?" he probes gently, his right hand drawing circles on my back. I can feel the heat of his hand through the thin material.

"What happens now?"

He looks perplexed. "What do you mean?"

I slip from his grasp and wrap my arms around myself, pacing nervously in front of him. "I mean you heard Haymitch. We are only two days from land."

"I should think that would be welcome news, no?"

How do I explain my bewildered thoughts to him—that as relieved as I shall be to see my parents and my sweet sister, the thought of leaving him behind fills me with dread? And what of the more sinuous thoughts snaking through my befuddled mind? What if Peeta does not feel the same way about me as I do for him? What if the captain's nasty accusation is right? What if I am just a diversion for him while we are aboard this ship?

"Katniss, please. Talk to me," he pleads, taking my hands in his and guiding me to stop my pacing.

"Peeta, do you love me?" My voice sounds meek and vulnerable, and the question hangs between us.

His sapphire eyes widen. "I thought I had made my feelings pretty clear at your trial," he says quietly.

"You didn't say the words."

He nods and rubs at the back of his neck, quiet for several minutes. "Can I show you something?" I hesitate, suddenly feeling embarrassed that he has not answered my question and in turn, posed one of his own. "Please, Katniss? Come with me."

The look on his face is so beseeching, so earnest that wordlessly, I allow him to lead me from the deck down to the forecastle. His hand clutches mine tightly the entire way, and I notice his palm grows sweaty.

The rest of our watch is nowhere to be seen when we reach the forecastle. We stop in front of his hammock, and he reaches into a small trunk just below it, pulling out a sheaf of papers bound together with a kind of crinkly fiber. He ushers me behind the sails that still separate my hammock from the others and draws it closed once we are inside.

He smiles at me nervously as he thrusts the bundle into my arms. I furrow my brows and glance at him expectantly. He nods at the papers, and I take it as an invitation to begin to leaf through them. I gasp sharply when I study the first page. Peeta chews his lip, his entire face flushing crimson.

It is a drawing of me. I stand atop the royal yard, my hair blowing freely in the wind, sails billowing around me. A serene smile graces my lips, and I am almost angelic among the sails and clouds he has captured so perfectly with the lines of charcoal.

"Peeta, these are wonderful," I murmur as I flip to the next sketch, which is also of me, manning the wheel, this time serious and focused, but with the same peaceful expression on my face. As I continue to thumb through the makeshift sketchbook, I realize all the drawings are of me.

The seventh sketch pulls another gasp from my lips. But it is me the night Peeta left me in this very space, my clothes nearly transparent from my dunking in the sea. I cannot keep a deep blush from rising on my cheeks at the almost-nude state in which he has drawn me, but I am further confounded by the detail in the lines, the smudges that shade everything just so. This is not me. It can't be.

"I am not this beautiful," I say shyly, because the girl in this drawing is luminous. The eyes smolder with intensity, the smile is coy, and the body is shapely and womanly.

"Yes, you are," he whispers reverently, though he remains rooted in place.

"You were studying me that night? Here I thought you were a gentleman," I tease.

"I didn't want to take my eyes off of you," he replies. "I promise you I didn't stare. But it's easy to draw you from memory because you are always on my mind. I close my eyes and there you are. Lately, I can scarcely picture anything else."

He steps towards me and slips an arm around my waist, sending my pulse racing and my body hums with energy. "I love you, Katniss." He cups my cheek with his other hand, and softly, he presses his mouth to mine. "I could have shouted it in front of everyone yesterday, I could have yelled it from the deck moments ago, but the first time I said those words to you, I wanted it to be just you and me."

"Say it again," I plea, my fingers gripping his shoulders tightly.

"I love you," he repeats, a mirthful laugh bubbling from his lips as he twirls me about the cramped space. When he sets me down, the air between us grows noticeably charged and the wanton look in those blue eyes causes my whole body to go tense with anticipation. I subconsciously dart my tongue out to wet my parched lips, and it incites Peeta into action. His mouth descends on mine and his lips move expertly, encouraging me to match his movements. The heat of his tongue outlines my lips before pressing insistently where they join, and I part them to draw him into my mouth again.

Our tongues meet and clash, and we take turns suckling each other. He groans deeply against me, winding his fingers into my hair and holding me in place with his hands laced together at the nape of my neck. I feel as though I could suffocate in his embrace, but a more satisfying smothering I cannot imagine.

"I'm going to lie you down now," he whispers huskily between kisses, shuffling our bodies to the edge of my hammock. I nod shyly, allowing one of his hands to find the small of my back while the other guides my shoulders down to settle me against the canvas. He straddles me, moving precariously until he is certain the hammock will support both of us. Then he slowly lowers himself, covering my body with his, the weight of him pressing me further into the hammock. His muscular frame outweighs me considerably, but the feel of him against me is indescribably pleasurable.

His lips leave mine and begin to map a course down the column of my throat, dipping into the hollow there, alternating nipping at the sensitive skin and laving it with deft strokes of his tongue. I squirm beneath him, unsure of how to ease the tension that has strung my body taut like an arrow in a quiver. When my hips buck against his, I feel the hard length of his erection brush my thigh. I gasp and thrust my hips against him again.

"Easy," he warns. His warm breath skates over the thin fabric of my shirt as he places searing kisses along my collarbone, and I shudder, my nipples peaking in response. I bite my lip and arch my back, forcing my breasts closer to his waiting mouth. He nips at one through the material, and in spite of the barrier, the heat of his mouth sends another curl of lust surging through me.

"Peeta, I want you," I mewl, tugging at his hair and forcing his mouth back up to mine. His erection throbs a silent reply to my words, and I try to grind my lower half up to meet him. The dull ache between my legs has intensified to a pulsating need.

But he raises himself up, bracing his body on his palms, chest heaving, and he regards me carefully in the flickering light from the few lanterns strung around the forecastle. "Katniss, you do not know what you're saying," he chides me softly, gently brushing a few tendrils of my hair off my forehead.

"I do," I insist. "I know what it means, and I know what I'm saying. I wouldn't have said it otherwise. I want to give myself to you."

And the truth is I have wanted nothing more since I was safely ensconced in Peeta's arms after the captain drowned. The mortal danger I faced in the past several days has gifted me with a renewed sense of clarity. Life is short—there may not always be a tomorrow. I gaze at him hopefully, but he shakes his head sadly and swings his legs over the edge of the hammock.

"We can't, Katniss. I couldn't…"

"Peeta, don't you want me…like that?" I ask, drawing my knees up to my chest, leaning my chin on them.

He smiles wanly. "Of course I do. More than you could know."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Katniss, are ye in 'ere?" Finnick's brogue echoes through the space from outside the curtain.

"Uh, yeah, Finnick!" I call back. "Just resting. I guess that rum went right to my head," I lie, stumbling to my feet.

"Aight lassie, but did ye not hear the bells? Second dog watch. We're on duty."

"Thanks, Finn. I'll be right up."

"If ye see Peeta, we're lookin' fer him too." The tone of Finnick's last comment hints that he knows exactly where Peeta is. The door to the forecastle bangs shut, and Peeta stares up at me.

"Well that's reason number one," he laughs softly. "I guess that would be a sign."

I shake my head firmly and grab him by the upper arms, hauling him to his feet and crushing my lips to his in another kiss. We are both panting when I release him moments later. "This conversation isn't over," I warn. "Wait for me near the galley after watch. I'll go up first." I leave him standing in front of my hammock, rushing from the forecastle to take my place on duty before he can protest my command.

* * *

For watch, Finnick and I stand atop the topgallant spar for a while in silence. This close to shore, there is little else that needs to be done in the evening watches, so searching the horizon for any ribbon of land takes higher priority. Most of the crew's burden now will come when we finally dock in Philadelphia and the cargo needs to be unloaded. I regret that I'll be unable to fulfill my part of that task.

"Katniss, I hope ye know again how sorry I am that I e'er doubted ye," Finnick says quietly.

"I forgive you, Finnick," I reply. "Let's not speak of it again, okay?"

"This may be our last watch up 'ere together, eh, lassie?"

"Yeah," I breathe, coughing lightly to loosen the lump quickly forming in my throat.

"Ye don't seem like yerself tonight."

"Can I tell you something, Finnick?"

"Aye, lassie. Anything."

"I'm scared to go back home," I whisper, choking back tears that are as much from shame as they are fear.

"Oh, Katniss, ye'll be fine once ye get back t'normal. This journey 'as not been easy on ye."

"I don't think I know what normal is anymore," I confide. "This voyage has changed me."

"Of course it 'as. 'Tis changed us all."

"It's been eight years since I've been with my family. They've changed too, I'm sure." I sigh, leaning against the mast and watching the lavender-streaked clouds scuttle by and break apart. "I guess I don't know what I'm going home to."

"Th'unknown 'tis a part o'life, Katniss. Ye never know what t'morrow is goin' t'bring."

I smile wryly. "I was just thinking about that earlier tonight, Finnick. You must be a mindreader."

His emerald eyes twinkle playfully. "Then allow me t'continue playin' mindreader. Yer mood wouldn't have anythin' t'do with a certain blond sailor, would it?" I smack him lightly on the shoulder and he chuckles. "Thought so."

"Can I ask you a personal question, Finnick?"

"'Tis no better kind," he muses. My eyes drift to the mermaid adorning his arm.

"Did you…I mean…" I blush furiously, finding it difficult to get the question onto the tip of my tongue.

"Katniss?" he prods, his smile widening knowingly.

"Did you and Annie…have, uh, relations…you know…I mean, before…" I babble and immediately curse myself for sounding so childish. Finnick places a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

"Easy, lassie, no need t'be embarrassed askin' me such a thing. Ye're asking me about sex, are ye?" My blush deepens and I nod. "'Tis not somethin' ye need t'be ashamed o'."

"It's not?" I ask expectantly. I could go on and on about the lectures on virtue and the reprimands for wanton thoughts that I endured during my time at Panem.

"Oh, Katniss. There's not a human bein' who doesn't think about it once ye reach a certain age. When I was yer age I pretty much thought about it from dawn t'dusk."

"I think I want to give myself to Peeta," I whisper.

Finnick is quiet for a while. Then he clears his throat. "Annie and I…yes, we were together a few times before she died. She was a good girl, much like yerself, and she was worried about 'er parents and the church and committin' a sin." He sighs. "In fact, in the days after she died, I cursed myself, thinkin' 'er death was punishment fer our behavior."

"Oh, Finnick." I lean my head against his shoulder and let my fingers trace the voluptuous curves of the siren on his bicep.

"I was pretty angry with God fer awhile. But then, ye see, Katniss, I started t'realize somethin. 'ad Annie and I waited, waited til a ring was on 'er finger and our union blessed by God, we never would'ave been together. And we 'ad those few times, and they were bliss, and I wouldn't trade em fer anything. Other than havin' 'er back," he adds hastily.

"You think I should do it then?" I murmur, my stomach flipping nervously.

"Peeta loves ye, Katniss. I can assure ye of that. And when two people 'ave that kind o'love fer each other, well then, I think 'tis only natural t'express it."

"I love him too," I affirm. "And I worry I won't forgive myself if I don't experience…that…with him." I feel foolish not being able to name the act itself given that I am virtually certain I'm going to do...it...with Peeta in a few hours.

Something else has been nagging at my mind, and I seize the opportunity to allow Finnick to shed a little light on it. "Finnick, the captain said something to me about what sailors do when you're in port. He hinted that Peeta had probably been with other girls."

"Katniss, lassie, the captain was a horrid, cruel, bitter man. De ye really believe anything 'e said?"

"No, but…" I trail off. Finnick laughs airily.

"Peeta's practically as pure as ye are. Sure, when 'e first joined the crew, we tried our damndest t'defile him. Encouraged 'im t'give a few girls a whirl." Finnick chuckles heartily at the memory. "We could never get 'im t'go any further than kissin'."

A ribbon of jealousy winds through my veins at the thought of Peeta's lips on anyone else's, but I am relieved knowing that as far as sexual relations go, I'll be his first as well.

"Any other personal questions ye want t'ask," he winks.

"No, I don't think so," I flush.

"Then I'll give ye a word o'warnin." Be safe."

"What?"

"Ye need t'protect yerself. Wouldn't want t'go gettin' yerself with child, as cute as that wee one would be," he adds with a wink. "I 'ave somethin' ye can use in my trunk."

"Oh." I redden considerably. "I don't know anything about that." I've had my monthly courses for a few years now, though they are hardly a regular, but I am not about to start discussing bodily functions, especially womanly ones, with Finnick. Nor do I think it is my place to ask him why he has such a thing in his possession.

He nods and gazes at the horizon contemplatively. "Ye should take it anyway."

"Finnick?"

"Aye?"

"I'm going to miss you."

He smiles and presses a kiss to the crown of my head. "Me too, lassie. Me too."

* * *

When the first bell of the night watch chimes a bit later, I shimmy down the mast and leap to the deck, scampering first to the forecastle to allow Finnick to press the bizarre little object into my palm. I shove it in my pocket and race down to the galley with electricity sizzling through my veins.

I skid to a stop in the doorway, frowning as I find the space empty. No Cinna, which I had hoped, but no Peeta either. I exhale slowly and try not to think the worst, taking a seat on the stool and tracing the knots in the wood absently with my fingers while I wait. With each passing minute, the tension in my belly coils a little tighter.

"Hi." Peeta's quiet voice sends me leaping to my feet. He smiles sheepishly at me.

"Hi," I exhale, returning the smile. He closes the distance between us swiftly and kisses me hungrily.

"Uneventful watch?" he murmurs against my pliant lips.

"Uh, huh." I boldly swath my tongue along his lower lip, earning a soft groan from him. The small noise fuels my confidence, and I probe the wet heat of his mouth.

"Katniss," he begins, drawing back and holding me at arms' length. I cast my eyes downward, smiling smugly when I see the evidence of his arousal that I felt stirring seconds earlier.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings before," he continues, rubbing his thumbs over the backs of my palms.

"You didn't," I protest, but he presses a finger insistently against my lips. Spontaneously, I kiss it, and he smiles at the gesture.

"I just didn't think you were thinking logically when, uh, you suggested…that," he finishes.

"I was." I close the gap again and let my hand trail up his stomach, feeling the defined muscles tense under my touch. I lay a hand on his chest, the heavy thump of his heart steady against my palm.

"Katniss, as much as I want to do that with you, it wouldn't be right. That's something you need to save for your husband."

"I'm not getting married, Peeta, unless it's to you. I can't possibly see myself with anyone but you. I don't _want_ anyone but you."

He drags his thumb along the swell of my lower lip, and I nuzzle my cheek against his palm, which is slightly damp with perspiration. "You say that now, Katniss, but when you get home to Philadelphia, your parents will have high hopes for you. You are a lady from a good family and you'll have suitors. Probably scores of them."

I know he is thinking of his own mother and her plans for his future. "I don't want any stupid suitor, Peeta," I insist. "I want you." I take my fingers and use my hands to begin to memorize the lines of his face: the exact shape of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the angular slant of his jaw. "I want you _now_."

"Katniss," he hisses, his breath escaping in a slow, steady stream—a warning.

"Shh." I let my lips follow the same path my fingers just coursed. "I talked to Finnick while we stood watch. I told him what I wanted to do—"

"What?" Peeta's voice jumps an octave, and it earns a tiny giggle from me.

"I asked him about Annie. If they ever, you know, had relations together."

"And?" he croaks as my lips descend on his Adam's apple, nibbling at the protuberance.

"This is a memory we will always have of each other, Peeta. No matter what else happens. I want this. And I know you do too. Please?"

"I'm trying to do the honorable thing, here, Katniss. Don't make it any more difficult on me," he whispers, closing his eyes and tilting his neck to give me better access to the skin there. I move to take one of his earlobes between my teeth, relishing the way his body tenses against mine.

"Don't be so honorable, then." I try to purr the words to sound seductive, but my voice squeaks out tremulous and high on account of my nerves.

Peeta pushes me away gently, and my eyes narrow in confusion. He threads his fingers through mine and urges me to follow him with a nod of his head. I am not aware of where he is taking me until he stops outside my old cabin. "You are certain about this?" he murmurs.

"I have never wanted anything so badly in all my life," I reply honestly. And it is true; before this, I did not know such desire, such need was possible.

He pushes the door to the cabin open in response. My heart flutters as I step in and discover the entire room bathed in flickering candlelight. There are extra blankets atop the old pallet on which I slept for so many nights, and Peeta has even managed to pilfer a few pillows.

I turn to him, my eyes wide, and he smiles nervously, stooping to join me inside. "I, uh, was hoping you wouldn't have changed your mind. So I prepared a little." He fidgets, wringing his hands in front of him. "I mean, these circumstances still aren't ideal, and your first time—"

"It's perfect," I interrupt, launching myself into his arms. He staggers back a bit before he steadies himself and his hands find purchase on my hips.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," he says, his voice laced with lust, his pupils fat, nearly onyx from desire. "Are you certain?" I feel him, fully hard against my thigh.

"Yes," I reply calmly. "I want to be yours, Peeta. Make me yours, please."

He smiles, and it's such a genuine, elated grin that it almost erases any nerves that are swirling in the pit of my stomach. _Almost._

"We, ah, we should undress, first."

"So undress me," I offer demurely. A tiny growl escapes him as he grips the bottom of my shirt and lifts it upward, tossing it carefully to the ground so as not to catch any of the candles. He swallows and blinks rapidly at the sight of my naked breasts. The look he gives me is so ardent that my nipples contract and pucker under his gaze.

"You are beautiful," he murmurs, returning his hands to my waist to slide the canvas breeches downward. I circle my hips faintly to assist. My heart pounds loudly, and there is a soft hum in my ears from the blood rushing through my body. I drop my gaze shyly as I stand, completely exposed, before him. "So beautiful. Like a work of art," he adds appraisingly, making quick work of his own shirt and trousers, and then it is my turn to gawk and admire.

I have seen the muscular planes and sculpted ridges of his chest and abdomen many times when he works shirtless on deck, but I decide it is a view that I will never tire of seeing. His waist tapers into a vee that entices my eyes to follow its path further downward. I can't contain the strangled gasp that slips past my lips at the full sight of him. I have never seen a man naked in the flesh before, and I am in awe of the physical perfection that he embodies. The length of him strains upward, and while it looks strange and foreign at first, my next thought is one of restrained panic: there is no way that thing will fit inside of me. My heart knocks at my rib cage.

We continue to stare at each other for several more seconds before Peeta moves towards me. His arms swoop under my knees, and he gathers me into his arms easily. Moving to the makeshift bed, he carefully sets me down, just as he had earlier in the hammock. The blankets add a bit of softness to the rough pallet, and my breath hitches expectantly as he climbs over me.

"Oh!" I sit up, startling Peeta when my bare breasts crush against his own naked chest. He groans at the contact.

"What?"

I blush and lean back on my elbows. "I think we need something that's in the pocket of my breeches," I whisper shyly. Peeta ruffles his hair and chuckles.

"I have one in my pocket too." His lips tug upward in amusement. "Finnick?"

"Yes." I giggle.

"Then I guess we will just have to do it twice," he murmurs, covering my mouth with his as his words ignite a fire in my belly. One of his hands lifts to palm my breast, and his mouth swallows my low, keening moan while his fingers roll my nipple experimentally. His hand wanders to the other breast and his thumb circles that nipple agonizingly slowly.

At the first flick of his tongue over the sensitive bud, I nearly come apart. His ministrations call to mind a kitten taking its first taste of milk: his initial licks are hesitant, exploratory. And then he swipes at the nipple more greedily, the flat of his tongue lavishing it, lapping eagerly. I buck against him and arch my back, which drives my breast into his mouth. He laughs a throaty chuckle and suckles at it with relish.

"Peeta, please," I whimper. The fire in my belly has erupted into a raging inferno, and that throbbing, insistent need has returned between my thighs.

"Shh, be patient," he murmurs back against my breast before his mouth engulfs it, suckling more gently this time. He continues his languid assault on them, leaving me writhing and begging for relief. Impulsively, I weave my fingers through his curls and guide his mouth back to mine before letting my hands wander to his back. The muscles there tense under my touch, and I am careful when my fingers discover the braised welts from his lashing.

"It was worth it," he mumbles before I can say a word about his wounds. He kisses me again then breaks the embrace and hops off me, rummaging in the pocket of his discarded trousers. I prop myself up on one elbow to watch him. How can the human body be so beautiful? It seems shameful that he even wears clothes, but I relish that I am the only one who sees him like this.

"You know the first time can be painful for a lady," he whispers as he he settles next to me again, the condom clenched in his fist. He brushes the sweat-soaked strands of hair out of my eyes and gazes at me intently. He fumbles to ease the sheath over his length. I stare, mesmerized. Part of me wants to reach out and touch him, take him in my hand to know what he feels like, but I wouldn't know where to even begin, so I decide to let Peeta continue to lead.

"I know," I stammer, the knot in my stomach tightening.

"I'll do everything in my power not to hurt you, Katniss," he says, easing my body back onto the pallet. I nod, trembling as I feel his hand slide between my legs, and I instinctively clench them together. He gently coaxes them apart, and I jolt as he positions the tip of himself at my entrance. "You're so wet," he breathes in my ear, placing kisses along my jaw, claiming my mouth again. "That should make it easier."

I squeeze my eyes shut as he begins to press into me. "Relax, Katniss. Look at me." I open my eyes and meet his adoring blue gaze. "Relax," he says again, easing into me further.

The pain is not like any kind of pain I have experienced before. That is not to say it's unbearable. It is just…different. There is a burning sensation that floods me as I feel myself stretch to accommodate him. A sharp sting paralyzes me momentarily with his next movement; Peeta groans as he thrusts, filling me completely, and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

"You're okay." Peeta plants a kiss on my sweaty forehead and smiles down at me. His arms, braced on either side of my shoulders, begin to tremble as he thrusts into me. "God, you feel so good." I try to drive my hips up to meet him. Our mouths connect clumsily, and I sense a change when his breathing becomes increasingly more erratic. And then he shudders and calls my name and collapses against me, our damp bodies clinging to one another.

"Oh, god, that was…" he trails off, panting, unable to complete his thought. He lifts his head off my shoulder and looks at me lovingly.

"It was good?" I ask timidly.

"Uh, yes, it was amazing." His lips ghost over my collarbone before landing fully on my mouth. "I'm sorry I didn't last very long. You couldn't have enjoyed that nearly as much as I did."

"I did, but it doesn't matter anyway," I mumble against his lips, "you said we were going to do it twice."

He laughs against my skin, his heated breath fanning over my breasts. "I did say that. Let me recover a bit." His fingers begin wandering over my abdomen, drawing little circles around my bellybutton as he tightens his arm around me and I nestle closer.

"I love you, Katniss Everdeen," he murmurs against my ear.

I close my eyes, the blissful warmth of being cocooned against him turning my limbs to jelly. "I love you, too, Mr. Mellark."

* * *

_More smut ahead in Chapter 19, as well as a scene I've been nervous about since I wrote it—the backstory to (now) Captain Haymitch. _

_As this story nears its conclusion, I can't thank my readers enough for the wonderful reviews, the follows and the favorites. And I continue to be indebted to ILoveRynMar and jeeno2 for their support in writing this chapter, especially given its content...I wrote this before anything else smutty that I've posted since, so their encouragement was vital. _

_For those of you who don't have me on author alert, I posted the prologue of what I am leaning towards as my next WIP...it's an Agatha Christie/Scream style murder mystery called One by One. If you enjoy thrillers, I hope you'll join me for the ride. _


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: **To those who wondered in their reviews...yes, there were condoms in 1832—actually even before that, in colonial times! They are not the modern rubber ones that were fashioned in the early 1900s, but they did exist. Most were thick and made of sheep's stomach and intestinal lining and were mostly used by sailors. Go figure._

_The lines that Cinna speaks to Katniss about choosing her wind are a direct nod (although paraphrased...had to get the gale line in there) from Avi's novel. CD belongs to him. THG belongs to Suzanne Collins._

_Rest of the notes to follow..._

* * *

The second time we make love leaves me breathless.

Peeta flexes his hips and enters me with one swift thrust; with my maidenhead gone, any residual pain quickly ebbs away as he begins a slow rhythm pumping in and out of me. I mold my mouth to his, our tongues knotting in a sensual dance as he continues to possess me. A familiar sweet tension builds in my abdomen.

He nudges me gently, urging me to spread my legs wider. I acquiesce, and he angles my body upward, changing the angle of his plunging motions. With each new stroke, I circle my hips up to meet him and that coil in my belly tightens. Peeta wrenches his lips from mine and lowers them to my breast, drawing my nipple into the wet heat of his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the taut bud, the fingers of one hand tweaking and teasing at my other nipple, and I whimper, clawing at his back with my nails.

His free hand reaches down and probes right above the spot where we are joined together. I gasp as his fingers press firmly, mapping the area, his eyes searching mine for a reaction.

"Does that feel good?" he whispers as his thumb swirls lazily. I nod, speechless, as an exquisite pleasure mounts with each ministration of his hand. He continues to drive into me, and a dizzying sensation overtakes me moments later as I fall to pieces, my walls clenching around him as I cry his name and brilliant white lights burst behind my closed eyelids. He grunts once and spasms above me, clutching me to him as we bask in the subsiding waves together.

"Oh. My. God," I murmur when I finally find my voice again.

"I told you it was amazing," he sighs, nestling himself alongside me, drawing the length of my body flush against him.

And then to my embarrassment, I start to cry. "Hey, hey." He angles my head over my shoulder to meet his eyes. "Don't cry. What's wrong?"

"I…I…" I sob, hiccoughing lightly in between strangled cries.

"Katniss,_ shhh_. Calm down." He strokes my hair gently with one hand, the other rubbing my arm consolingly.

"I can't leave you, Peeta," I whimper.

He kisses my forehead. "Oh, love, that's out of our control."

So I amend my words slightly, my eyes pleading in the muted light. "I don't _want_ to leave you." Many of the candles have sputtered out. I seek his lips and move my mouth against his urgently, our bodies quickly responding anew to the fevered passion of the kiss.

"Easy," he says, struggling to catch his breath. "We can't go for a third round right now. We'd need another condom, assuming Finnick even has more."

I sigh. "And midnight watch starts soon."

He presses another kiss to my nose. "Let's not ruin tonight talking about tomorrow, alright?"

"Alright," I agree softly, burrowing tighter into his strong arms. We lie together for a while, neither of us speaking, enjoying the feel of our bodies wound around each other. Eventually we both struggle to our feet and reluctantly redress, but not before Peeta spends several additional minutes worshipping my breasts, my stomach and my thighs with his mouth.

"I could do this for hours," he mumbles against my flushed skin before he slips my shirt back over my head.

"I wish we had hours," I reply ruefully. I reach for a damp cloth that Peeta has brought to clean us with. His hand lands on mine and stills it.

"Let me," he begs, his voice rough, and I nod, heat pulsating at my core. He parts my legs gently, swabbing the cloth along my thighs, which are sticky from my arousal. I am not surprised to see blood staining the cloth when he pulls it away. After he finishes, he presses a tender kiss to the soft thatch of curls there. I blush at the intimate gesture.

"I love you," he smiles.

"I love you," I whisper back, and I wonder if it's possible that I will ever feel as happy again as I do in this moment.

* * *

Not surprisingly, I am sore and tired as we report for midnight watch, and Haymitch cocks an eyebrow at me. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I reply through clenched teeth, avoiding Peeta's eyes and noting Finnick's amused expression.

"You want to man the wheel tonight?"

"Sure," I nod, grateful that I'll be standing in one place for most of the early morning, thus not stretching and climbing, allowing my body some time to recover from Peeta's pleasurable invasions.

Peeta and Finnick take their positions atop the royal yard, and Brutus is left to reef sails. Peeta shoots me a private smile before following Finnick up the mast. I watch the muscles in his calves tense and contract as he ably climbs up, disappearing into the field of white.

I grip the wheel and the next few hours pass in relative tranquility. I watch the stars arc across the sky, their familiar patterns revolving around the faithful North Star. When the eighth bell rings and I crawl into my hammock, sleep comes easily. I never hear the rest of my watch enter the forecastle.

Seven bells later, I feel a gentle shaking. Opening my eyes, blinking and rubbing the sleep from them, I am met by a sea of brilliant blue peering at me intently. "Hi," he whispers, brushing my matted hair from my temple. I run my tongue over my teeth and imagine how disheveled I look. It is equally refreshing and appalling to me that this is the first instance where I have remotely considered my appearance in his presence given our current circumstances.

"Hi," I smile back. He hovers over me and brushes his lips across mine.

"You were sound asleep. Finn and Brutus went up to grab something before forenoon watch starts. I thought I'd see if you want to join us." He brings my knuckles to his mouth. "And maybe get another second or two alone with you."

I stretch along the length of the hammock, rolling my shoulders and yawning. "I'm exhausted," I moan, twisting onto my side to face him fully. He curls a lock of my hair around his finger and laughs quietly.

"Yes, well, not sleeping when you're off-watch can catch up with you pretty quickly."

"I don't regret not sleeping, Mr. Mellark." I quirk an eyebrow at him, and his eyes twinkle.

"Good, I don't either." He trails his finger up my forearm, eliciting a shiver from me. I lunge up and attack his mouth with mine, moving my lips enthusiastically over his. I blink rapidly when he draws back. He links our fingers together immediately.

"I can't allow myself to get caught up in you right now," he warns gently, seeing the confusion on my face. "You do things to me, you know that now, and I really need to go grab something to eat before watch, and I can't really do that with my desire for you so evident."

"Oh," I reply worrying my lips with my teeth. He squeezes my hand.

"It's not that I don't want to. I _always_ want to, Katniss. Especially now," he adds gruffly. He encourages me to rise from the hammock, and when I do, he enfolds me in his arms. "I love you," he whispers, edging his thumb along the seam of my lips. "Always."

"Always," I agree.

"I'll go up first?"

I nod and after he slips out of my space, I twirl about, giddy, until I lose my balance and crash into the sail-curtains. With no one to witness my embarrassment, I adjust my sailor's attire and shuffle out of the forecastle to join my watch.

At breakfast, Peeta and I cannot keep our eyes off of each other. Finnick smirks and pokes me with his elbow, sloshing my coffee.

"That good, eh, lassie," he laughs.

"Shut up, Finnick," I reply, taking a sip from the now half-empty cup.

"I 'ave a few more condoms if ye need 'em," he persists, dimples flashing. I smack him with an open palm.

"Keep your voice down," I hiss.

He laughs again. "No worries, lassie. I already offered 'em t'Peeta after midnight watch," he winks. I redden and smack him again. It only increases his laughter.

Cinna clears the dirty dishes from mates' mess, laying out a fresh spread for the other watch, whose shift will end at the next bell. It is then Haymitch appears at the entryway to the mess. He leans against the doorframe and surveys us.

"Men," he begins, and then clears his throat. "And Katniss," he adds quickly, "land has been spotted. We'll dock in Philadelphia by daybreak tomorrow."

Peeta reaches for my hand and squeezes it inconspicuously. This news is less joyful for us than it is for the others. We have fewer than twenty-four hours together—this time, it's a certainty. I am unable to prevent a lump from lodging in my throat, and I finish my breakfast in silence.

That afternoon, off-watch, I meander my way through steerage and loiter outside the galley until Cinna spies me just inside the threshold.

"Katniss, come in," he calls warmly. I accept the invitation and have a seat on the stool. Glancing about, I marvel at how little the space has physically changed in the two months we have been at sea, but how different it all feels in spite of this constancy. "Something is troubling you, my little mockingjay," he says slowly, regarding my pained expression.

I furrow my brow and stare back. "What did you just call me?"

"The bird that guards our ship. Our figurehead. Come, Katniss, you've never been curious about it?"

"Oh, no," I disagree. "I have. I just didn't give it much thought after a while." I drum my fingers against the table absently. "Do you know the story behind it?"

"I know that the man who originally commissioned for the building of this ship had a particular fondness for birds. He agonized for weeks over which creature should get the honor of gracing the figurehead. And then it dawned upon him that he should not have to choose, and he challenged the shipbuilders to combine his two favorites: the mockingbird and the blue jay."

I shrug. "What is so special about those two?" I'm thinking that there are at least a dozen other birds that I would choose first. A swan. A dove. A peacock. Beautiful. Graceful. Exotic, even. Blue jays and mockingbirds seem so commonplace.

"Mockingbirds are fearless protectors, loyal and faithful. As are blue jays. They keep the same mate for life, which is highly unusual for most birds." He pauses. "And both have the capacity to surprise with their fierceness in spite of their beauty."

He crosses the galley and takes the stool across from me, reaching for my hand. "I cannot think of anyone who better embodies that than you, my girl. You have proven yourself to be loyal, faithful, and I doubt there is a soul on this ship who you did not surprise with your determination."

"Oh, Cinna." The tears spring to my eyes, and I do not hold them back. "I don't deserve you."

"Do not say that, Katniss."

I sniffle. "You were the first person on this ship to offer me friendship." I lower my head. "I was not very kind to you, and you still reached out to me. Protected me. Defended me."

"You were only responding in a manner which you were accustomed to. How you had been taught," he replies, eyeing the pot that is now boiling on the stove.

I sigh and rest my chin on my hands. "Nevertheless, I'm ashamed of the way I acted at times and the things that I said to you."

"Katniss, you boarded this ship a product of your upbringing. I cannot fault you for that. And as I said, you have come so far from that prim young lady with the starched skirts and spotless white gloves."

His choice of adjectives is ironic, and it immediately brings my sister to mind. I lift my chin and wring my hands nervously in front of me. "What do you think awaits me in Philadelphia?"

He understands my underlying question implicitly, but he must return to the stove to tend to the water that is now bubbling and gurgling, threatening to breech its containment. Sighing, he blows out the flame under the pot and removes it from the stove, setting it onto a cork disk to cool. He comes to kneel before me, and he takes my hands in his once more.

"Katniss, you have a good life ahead of you. Your family is wealthy; you've told me you have a sister who you are anxious to be reacquainted with. You'll want for nothing."

"They will have expectations for me," I whisper, my stomach knotting at the thought of returning to that uptight, proper young lady. My ribs ache at the very notion of being bound by a corset again. "I do not know if I can be that girl, Cinna." My lips twitch. "I do not know that I'll be given an alternative, though."

"I cannot promise you that it will be easy," he begins, locking those tawny eyes on me, "or that you will not have moments where you will feel trapped. I have been there."

"And you ran away," I supply.

He nods wistfully. "A choice I felt I had to make. Listen, Katniss. A wise man once said that a sailor chooses the wind that will take his ship from port. But as you've seen firsthand, winds have a mind of their own. No gentle breezes or harsh gales will guide you along the same route twice." He pauses. "So take your time, Katniss, choosing the wind you'll follow. Be sure and choose a favorable one."

"What if I am not given a choice?" I ask, trepidation tightening the knot in my belly.

He regards me carefully, and his eyes sparkle knowingly. "One always has a choice, Katniss."

I am reefing a sail during first dogwatch when I pause to rest at the trestletree of the topgallant spar. That omnipresent lump that will not go away bobs against my throat as I swallow, my eyes scanning the horizon. The thin ribbon of green against the hazy, late afternoon sky is most definitely land, and the squawks and screeches of gulls that occasionally shatter the serene silence confirm it as well.

I lean back against the mast and sigh, the gentle breeze off the water ruffling my hair slightly. It is ironic that when I began this voyage, I did not want to be on this ship. I think back to my desperation to go ashore, my panic at being trapped at sea with strange men and I smile wryly. How things change. Now, it is departing the ship I fear.

I climb down the ratlines, leaping gracefully to the deck, and the sight of Haymitch startles me. He shakes his head and worries the toothpick jutting out from the corner of his cracked lips. "Do you remember when it took you an hour to ascend the mast?" he laughs. "Look at you now. I'm proud of ya, sweetheart."

I swallow and look down at my hands, hot pinpricks at the corners of my eyes; his praise stirs up the swirling emotions within me, and I struggle to keep my lower lip from trembling dangerously.

"What's wrong? I just gave ya a compliment," he grouses. "And in about twelve hours now, you'll be back on solid ground, back to your family."

"You all have become like my family," I whisper. "Haymitch, what's next for you? For the crew?"

"Well," he begins, "the ship docks in Philadelphia to unload most of this cargo, and then we must sail on to Baltimore to deliver the rest of this cargo."

"Baltimore?" I recall Miss Trinket's words so many days ago, informing me that _The Mockingjay_ had been built in the Maryland city.

"Baltimore is the center of the shipbuilding industry. I assume they will be able to make the necessary repairs to the mast and the spars there."

"And once you are in Baltimore?"

Haymitch shrugs. "We go where the need is. Where we can sign on."

"Will you be able to captain the next voyage?"

He shrugs again. "The companies who commission the ships are the ones who usually choose the captains. Hence why Snow was master so frequently."

"You will petition for advancement, no? I will put in a good word with my father and his company," I assure him.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

I wring my hands and bounce on the balls of my feet. "What about the rest of the crew?"

"This is about the boy, isn't it?"

I let out a shuddering breath and the tears threaten to spout anew.

"That boy would move the sun and moon for you," he says gruffly. I sigh, drawing in another shaky breath as I try to compose myself. "He's a good kid, Katniss."

"I love him," I say bluntly.

Haymitch nods and winks at me. "I know. We all know."

"Have you ever been in love, Haymitch?"

He does not answer me immediately. His slate-gray eyes slide away from mine, and he stares out over the open water for quite some time. The toothpick jostles and dances in his mouth, and he looks as if he is about to speak.

"Her name was Maysilee," he says quietly. It is the gentlest I have ever heard Haymitch's tone, but it also laced with pain, and it commands my attention instantly. "She died in childbirth. Took our son with her."

"Oh, God, Haymitch." I cover my mouth, the tears finally sliding down my cheeks, my heart seizing painfully for his loss. "I am so sorry."

"It's been sixteen years." He clears his throat, and his eyes are suddenly misty. "He'd be your age, sweetheart." He continues to gaze at the rolling sea, and I see him blink repeatedly, his eyes growing moist.

"Is that why you became a sailor?" I ask hesitantly, not wishing to pry, but hoping he will open up to me. "Finnick told me he turned to sailing when he lost his Annie."

Haymitch shakes his head, jiggling the toothpick again. He plucks the wooden splint from his lips and flicks it out into the waves. Reaching behind his eye, he produces a cigarette, which he lights quickly, and I watch his chest expand as he takes a long, greedy draw off it.

"I was a sailor before I met her," he replies, exhaling a rope of smoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Met her in England while I was docked with a ship twenty-two years ago." His countenance grows wistful, and a smile creases his face. "We fell hard and fast, and before I knew it, she was boardin' a ship to America to make a home for us in Baltimore."

"But if you were sailing all the time, weren't you apart a lot?"

"Yep," he agrees, sucking on the cigarette again, another plume of smoke curling into the air. "But sailing was so much a part of me, and Maysilee knew that. She'd never have asked me to give it up." He flicks ash at our feet. "In case you hadn't noticed, sweetheart, I ain't real good with people. I don't like em. Not most of em anyway. Sailing let me be alone." He coughs and tosses the cigarette overboard. "And I missed her and she missed me, but we made it work. It made the reunions extra sweet." I blush at his last statement, and I cannot help but think that Haymitch is, in his own way, trying to reassure me about being separated from Peeta.

I'm also technically still on-duty, but Haymitch has not uttered a word to me to get back to work. I can't be sure if his indifference is due to our imminent arrival in port or a cathartic need to purge his long-bottled up emotions. Perhaps it's both. Nevertheless, he continues speaking. "I was ready to leave it behind when she told me we was expecting though. She wanted that baby so badly."

"What happened?" I whisper, holding my breath.

"It was too early. She went into labor in December; the baby wasn't due until April. He didn't make it, and the doctors couldn't stop her bleeding." He swallows. "I think she just didn't wanna leave him, so she didn't fight. They left me alone."

Impulsively, I reach over and cover his hand with my own. He glances over at me, surprised. "The irony of that is terribly bitter, huh?" He chuckles sadly. "I liked my solitude, and suddenly, I was alone again."

"Do you miss them?" I instantly regret the foolishness of the question, but I cannot take it back.

He exhales deeply and nods. "Every damn day of my life."

"You will be with them again one day," I offer hopefully. Haymitch emits a sharp, caustic laugh.

"I'm glad one of us is certain of it. I still ain't too sure if I've made my peace with God, if there is one." He cuts those steely eyes at me. "I ain't told any of the men on this ship what I just told you."

This confession stuns me. It also flatters me that of all people, he would choose to open up to me in such a manner. His palm grazes my cheek, brushing a knotted lock of hair from my eyes. "He woulda been your age," he says. "And I can't help but wonder if he woulda wanted to follow my footsteps. If I'da been teaching him the things I taught you on this voyage."

"You would have been a wonderful father, Haymitch," I whisper earnestly.

He ruffles my hair again. "You did good, sweetheart. I'm gonna miss ya."

* * *

Peeta and I seek solace in each other later that night, shutting ourselves inside the cabin and becoming one once more. It is as if our bodies were meant to fit together, like two missing pieces of a puzzle.

"We cannot avoid the inevitable much longer, Peeta," I whisper as we lay, sated, in each other's arms. His thumb idly traces circles around my nipple, raising gooseflesh all over my naked body.

"We will find a way, Katniss," he murmurs against my damp hair.

"How?" I challenge, my voice tight.

"I'm thinking."

"I wish I could freeze this moment and stay here with you."

"This is not a life for you, Katniss. You have a future ahead of you in Philadelphia."

"My future is with you, Peeta! And I have done just fine with this life so far!" I retort hotly, sitting up and crossing my arms across my breasts.

"Yes, you have done more than I think anyone, including yourself, thought was possible."

"What if I just tell my parents about you? I'll tell them I met a man who loves me and who I want to be with?" My voice begins to rise with excitement. "You're not just a sailor, Peeta. I know they would be apprehensive at first, but you do have a background similar to ours, and I am sure that my father would appreciate your determination to open your bakery and—"

Peeta raises a hand to quiet me then places it on my bare shoulder, sliding it up and down my arm soothingly. He sighs. "You cannot be certain that they don't have other plans for you. Here I don't have competition for you but—"

"You don't have competition for me anywhere, Peeta. I'm not going to be with anyone else. There's only you," I implore, my palm flat against his broad chest. "So if they have other plans for me, they are going to be sorely disappointed. I will wait forever for you."

"I wish I could up and leave this life and just stay in Philadelphia with you."

"So do it!" I exclaim, my pulse quickening.

He gives me a sad, wistful smile. "If I had the money saved, Katniss, I would. I need more time. I could never provide you with the life you deserve."

"I do not need anything but you," I insist.

He pulls me back down against him and kisses me tenderly at first, but the spark between us ignites and supplants the leisurely embrace he started.

Feeling emboldened, I flash Peeta a wicked smile and settle my heated core over his hardness. He sucks in a breath and his eyes darken with lust as I begin to rock along his length, coating his manhood in the evidence of my renewed desire for him. My movements create a delicious friction, and it stirs an intense need between my legs. I gasp, grinding myself into him more forcefully, which earns a deep moan from him.

"Holy shit, Katniss," he hisses, and the bizarre thrill of hearing him utter a curse in the midst of our passion excites me, and I speed up my rocking.

His palms fumble up to cover my breasts, and I throw back my head, arching my back as his thumbs manipulate and pinch at my nipples. With each gliding movement against him, I feel as though I am racing towards a precipice, and when I finally reach the edge, the tension in my core bursts and I tumble off the cliff, spinning and soaring as my body dissolves above him.

Peeta reaches behind him, his hand groping under the pillow to find the last condom.

"Can I?" I ask nervously, biting my lip as his eyes widen and a silly grin tugs at his mouth.

"Uh, yes, sure." He presses it into my palm, and I lock my gaze on him.

Before I sheath him with it, my curiosity finally gets the better of me, and I wrap my hand around his shaft, surprised by how velvety soft the skin is to the touch. Peeta groans, and he gives me a voracious look. I slide my palm up and down experimentally, and he bucks against my hand.

"Hurry," he pants, sweat glistening on his brow, and I nod, carefully easing the strange, foreign material over his length. He shifts and as his hands skate down my sides to land on my hips, he is suddenly within me again.

It is an entirely different sensation being atop Peeta as he thrusts upward into me. I feel empowered above him as I roll my hips down, rotating them slightly, earning deep moans from Peeta, and breathy sighs escape my own mouth.

"God, Katniss!" He hisses my name, the last syllable trapped between his lips as he shakes beneath me and finally stills. "I don't know how I'm going to go without this now that I've had you."

"It will make our reunion all the more sweet," I reply, thinking on my conversation with Haymitch. He grins at me and kisses my temple.

"I can't promise I won't have impure thoughts about you and pleasure myself to them," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes, which are slowly returning to their brilliant blue hue. His words light a fire in my belly.

"Pleasure yourself?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. He nods. "How?"

"Well, uh—" He pauses and takes my hand in his then places both atop his flaccid length. "It's like what you were doing before. I just go up and down again and again until…" he trails off.

"And it feels good?"

He laughs. "Not as good as being inside you, I can say that now, but yeah, it feels good."

"Can—" I stop and blush. "Can I do something like that? Can I give myself pleasure and think of you?"

"Yes," he whispers, nuzzling my neck and suckling at the soft skin. "You know how I touched you before—here?" He tenderly parts my thighs again and presses gently at the fleshy folds. I suck in a breath and nod. "This little bundle of nerves will give you that feeling if you touch it the right way." He leans down and kisses me hungrily again. "Like this," he mumbles into my mouth, his fingers beginning to move in earnest circles once more. "You try it."

I glance at him hesitantly, and the wanton look in his eyes encourages me. I slide my hand between my legs, and he helps me to locate the spot. When he pulls back his hand, I move my fingers experimentally, biting my lip as a dull ache pulses beneath them.

"That's it," he murmurs, lowering his mouth to my breast, flicking his tongue over the taut peak. I moan and move my fingers faster, rubbing furiously and Peeta quickly returns his lips to mine to stifle my screams of pleasure. "That's it, love. That's all you have to do when you're missing me," he says once I have ridden out the waves of ecstasy that wash over me.

We are both quiet for several minutes; the sound of our labored breathing returning to normal is the only noise in the cabin. "Where do you go from here?" I ask softly. "I know the ship is continuing on to Baltimore. Haymitch told me."

"I check the postings there. See if any other ships need signing on," he replies, playing with my hair again. "I would prefer to sail with Haymitch, if his promotion is permanent. But if I may be honest, Katniss, I am going to sail as often as I can in the hopes of adding to my savings. I would hope maybe I might even be appointed as cook. It would build the savings quicker. Then, if you are still waiting—"

"I will be," I interrupt fiercely.

"I will come find you," he finishes, kissing my temple. My heart clenches at the mere uncertainty of when we will be together again. I shut my eyes and lean my head against his broad shoulder, inhaling deeply, memorizing every subtle note of his scent. I feel his lips ghost over my closed eyelids and his fingers tangle in my hair.

"What if you have cause to be in Philadelphia before then? Can I not see you in between?"

"Do you seriously think your parents would welcome me at your door?"

"I don't care what they think! I love you. They will love you. My father is a rational man, Peeta. I know he will want me happy, and you make me happy," I insist. Because, really, how can it be any other way? I can make them understand—I know I can.

Peeta grabs my hand and laces our fingers together. "If ever I am in Philadelphia, Katniss, you have my word: I will send you a sign, and we will find a way to see each other. Even if it is only for a few moments." He sighs, "That will have to do until I can offer you more."

"I will wait, Peeta," I promise, sealing the vow with a gentle kiss before we redress in silence.

* * *

No one sleeps that night. The watches both work together to complete the necessary chores for our arrival. The forecastle is packed up and the sailors' belongings bundled and moved to the main deck.

I stand behind the curtain in my private little space for the final time, my fingers shaking as I remove my sailor's garb and begin the tedious task of reassuming my role as a dignified young lady. My legs are once more encased in stockings, my waist pinched tight by my corset, and my body is lost among layers of petticoats and skirts. I wrinkle my nose at the sight of my gloves and bonnet. I feel like a stranger and presently, I am glad that I cannot see my reflection.

Sighing, I carefully take down the sails and fold them neatly, adding them to the pile in the corner of the forecastle.

"Ye're all set, then, lassie?" Finnick's voice startles me as I notice him lingering in the doorway.

"Uh, yes, I think so," I nod. His green eyes twinkle.

"I'll be takin' yer trunk up fer ye then."

"I can do it, Finn," I assert, eyeing the massive black domer. I suspect my boast is misfounded, but he laughs and strides to my side, patting my shoulder.

"I don't doubt ye could if ye really wanted t', lassie. But allow me."

I grab my valise and trail behind Finnick, who awes me by heaving the trunk onto his back and though hunched over slightly, manages to haul the trunk through steerage and up to the deck with minimal effort.

The entire crew has already gathered in the center of the deck, forming a semi-circle around Haymitch. The men pass around the remainder of the rum. When the bottle reaches me, Haymitch shakes his head.

"You probably shouldn't greet your family reeking of alcohol, sweetheart."

Regrettably, I agree, and I pass the bottle to Peeta, my fingers tingling when he accepts it from me. He gives me a private smile and leans over to press his lips to mine, handing the rum to Gloss without taking a sip. It is the first time he has kissed me in front of everyone. My heart soars.

Haymitch keeps his words brief. He thanks the crew for their service, thanks them for supporting him as captain in the absence of Snow. The men reaffirm their pact from the other night to remain faithful to the words I wrote in the log, and nothing further will be said about the true natures of the deaths that occurred on this ship. He clears his throat and turns to me. "And finally, to Katniss. You've proved yourself as much a member of this crew than the other men assembled here, and we salute you." He raises the bottle of rum, which has made it back to him and takes the final swig amongst a loud clamor of cries and huzzahs for me. I blush and look at my feet, humbled by the individual attention and accolodes.

As content as I was in Peeta's arms hours ago, I now think this is the happiest I've been, surrounded by these men who I've come to love as brothers.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** __So there are only three chapters remaining after this one...and we're leaving the Mockingjay in Chapter 20. What awaits her in Philadelphia...or who, as some of you have hinted. Yeah, yeah...remember this is an Everlark fic, so have faith._

_Thank you as always for the wonderful reviews and follows and favorites...I apologize for not getting a chance to answer every review from Chapter 18 (I think I missed a few of you), as my beta duties dominated my time as well as getting my prologue done for the Fairy Tale challenge on everlarkrecs. I posted Spellbound earlier this week, and I hope to have another chapter of that ready to go next week. Please check it out if you're so inclined! Please also check out the fairy tales I betaed: Stone Soup by streetlightlove and The Baker's Noble Son by IzzySamson. You won't be sorry you did!_

_Many thanks to my usual cheering section: ILoveRynMar, jeeno2 and __streetlightlove. I am a better writer because of your support and friendship._

_Thank you for reading...please share your thoughts!_


	20. Chapter 20

**_Author's Note:_ **_Two more chapters to go after this. I know most of you are awaiting Gale's arrival with bated breath...you'll have to wait a little longer. Chapter 21 is largely devoted to that subplot since I opted to chop this into two. _

_As always, THG belongs to Suzanne Collins and CD to Avi. _

_This story would not have ever left my laptop if not for the support and encouragement of ILoveRynMar and jeeno2 and as I near its end, I cannot thank them enough for being there from the start. And to my dear streetlightlove...thank you for your friendship and making me laugh. Please check out her stories if you have not already...including her brand new "A Healing Heart" that will be posting very shortly. _

_Finally, if you're in need of a wonderful historic AU, Manniness's Daughter of Samland, Son of Denmark is not to be missed. It's an amazingly immersive story that is also nearing a conclusion, so there's a nice long read ahead of you and very little wait between chapters! _

_Thank you for reading and for all your wonderful reviews and PMs. ~Court~_

* * *

**_20 August 1832, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA_**

The inky hue of the horizon begins to soften and the sky brightens from black to gray, from gray to indigo and finally from indigo to a subdued periwinkle, tinged with pink. It creates a purplish glow as the sun makes its presence known, boldly showing its full face within the half-hour from five bells to six.

We pull into port at seven bells, seven-thirty in the morning on Monday, August the twenty-first. The voyage has taken sixty-eight days.

Our real goodbyes had been spoken the night before. So as the ship is secured and the ropes tied taut, the only farewell the crew bids me is the doffing of their caps—those who wore them—and subtle nods of their heads. I cannot bear to look at Peeta as I struggle to keep my tears at bay.

"Good luck to you, sweetheart," Haymitch whispers as I take my first step onto the gangplank, and my heart knocks painfully against my ribs. Between the restricting garments and my chaotic emotions, I am finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

I make the mistake of glancing behind me as I reach the dock, and my eyes first meet Finnick's. His gaze holds nothing but admiration and pride, and my lower lip quivers uncontrollably.

And then I lock eyes with Peeta. The bittersweet smile curving his mouth upward seizes my heart with such a plaintive ache that I cannot continue looking at him. Pressing my lips together tightly to cease their trembling, I march onto the dock in search of my family.

"Katniss! There she is!" A feverish squeal cuts the stagnant August air. I see a gangly girl racing towards me, blonde curls bouncing behind her from beneath a white bonnet.

"Primrose, walk as a lady does," a sharp voice warns, a voice that must be that of my mother, though it is no more familiar to me than any other of the mingling tones rising around me on that dock.

"Katniss!" my sister cries, launching herself at me, nearly knocking me over with her enthusiasm. Hugging her back, I am startled to see the little toddler I left behind eight years ago is a willowy teenager nearly the same height as I.

"Hi, Prim," I whisper, inhaling the sweet scent of rosewater and jasmine that lingers around her.

"Katniss, darling, welcome home," my mother says airily as Prim releases me. My mother places her hands on my shoulders and offers light kisses to both of my cheeks. She does not do a very good job refraining from reacting visibly to my changed appearance. Her lips are set in a stiff smile, and I can feel her eyes scrutinizing me critically.

"Katniss, my dear!" My father beams at me, hugging me to him carefully, as if he is afraid I will break if he holds me too closely. "Welcome home!" He lifts my gloved hand to his lips and kisses it tenderly.

"Thank you, Father. I am glad to be home." I hope they do not notice the hesitation I give before saying the last word.

"Your things, Miss Everdeen." I turn and see Chaff standing before us, my trunk and valise at his side. Haymitch had insisted a crew member carry down my belongings in spite of my persistence that I could manage them myself.

"You're not part of this world anymore once you step ashore," he had reminded me. "A lady does not lug her own trunk."

"Thank you, Mr. Chaff," I say politely, dipping him a curtsy. I wait for my father to offer him a tip, but no movement is made to do so. Instead, he issues an order in a clipped tone to have my things placed in our carriage. Chaff nods and carts my things to the carriage my father indicates is ours. Once the trunk and valise are secured, I am certain my father's generous spirit will reward the sailor's kindness.

Again, no tip. I issue Chaff a sad smile, and he gives me a little wave as he heads back to the ship. My father extends his arm, motioning for me to take it.

"Shall we go home?"

"Yes," I whisper, my heart breaking as I follow their lead down the dock, my eyes darting back at _The Mockingjay_ until it blends into the hazy morning sky as the distance between us grows greater.

Once we are settled inside the carriage, I find their eyes on me again.

"You look…well," my father starts.

"She looks dreadful!" my mother corrects bluntly. "What happened to your face?"

"My face?" I touch my gloved fingertips to the skin of my cheek, wondering if some unnoticed blemish had sprouted overnight.

"Your face. It's practically brown."

"Oh," I sigh, relieved. "Yes, I got a bit of sun on the ship, Mother. So many hours on deck under the summer rays will do that to you."

"You were not wearing your bonnet?" she chides. I shrug.

"Katniss, your mother asked you a question," my father says pointedly.

"My bonnets were infested," I lie.

"Infested? Good God how?"

"Lice. I didn't want to wear them for fear of having to cut my hair if I couldn't prevent an outbreak. I pause and untie the bow under my chin with clumsy fingers, slipping the bonnet off my head to reveal my knotted hair. My mother gasps, and her hand flies to cover her mouth in horror.

"Oh my Lord, what happened to your hair?" she stutters. "Did you not brush it at all on board?" Prim gapes at me as well, her slender fingers combing through her blonde curls timidly.

"I lost my brush at sea," I lie again. It's disturbing, actually, how easily the fibs form on my tongue.

"Bonnet or no bonnet, I would have thought you would have kept to your cabin and done your reading, Katniss." My mother raises an eyebrow at me.

"I did plenty of reading, Mother. The captain encouraged me to read to the sailors, and I did."

She cringes visibly. "You interacted with those men?"

"It would have been dreadfully lonely being in my cabin by myself each day. Captain Snow suggested it, and I figured Father would have approved." I cut my eyes to him, and he strokes his beard thoughtfully.

"I am still quite distressed that the other passengers who should have accompanied you did not make the journey with you. I made those arrangements myself, and it angers me they could not honor their pledges to join you." I remain quiet, unwilling to explain why the two families truly stayed away from the ship.

"I bet it was interesting talking to the sailors!" Prim chatters excitedly. "What were they like?"

"Primrose!" my mother reprimands sharply. "Let's enjoy the rest of the ride home in silence, shall we?"

Prim gives me a private little smile, and I find myself contemplating her question at length. My heart patters sadly as I consider the men I left behind, the men who felt just as much like family as the three people surrounding me at present. I sigh and lean against the carriage window, blankly watching the bustling harbor disappear from sight as the cobbled streets and tree-lined alleys of the city come into view.

The carriage eventually clops to a halt in front of a three-story brick-faced building, iron sconces flanking either side of a paneled front door. Drapes are drawn across the first-story windows, and more windows line the second and third-floors. It's all very lovely and elegant, but it might as well be a fortress to me.

"We're home, Katniss!" Prim leaps from the carriage.

My mother sighs heavily. "You will have to excuse your sister's behavior, Katniss. She has been ever so eager to have you home." I wrinkle my brow because I do not find any fault with Prim's actions; indeed, I'm flattered she is so excited to see me.

I exit the carriage as gracefully as I can manage, though it is wholly strange how unsteady my legs are on solid ground after so many days at sea. It is almost like a reverse phenomenon of my first days aboard _The Mockingjay_. I mount the steps to follow my parents inside our house.

Once inside the threshold of the doorway, I look around the immense foyer, my eyes traveling up the length of a massive staircase. Prim has disappeared, but at the foot of the stairs stands a tall, sturdy black man—handsome, I think.

"Mr. Thresh, be so kind as to retrieve Miss Katniss's things from the carriage and have them taken to her room." My father addresses the man, who nods dutifully and slips out the open front door.

"Mrs. Everdeen, breakfast is laid out in the dining room." A matronly woman with streaked gray hair and a plump face steps into the foyer from a room at the rear of the house.

"Thank you, Sae."

The old woman smiles warmly at me. "Welcome home, Miss Katniss."

"Thank you, ma'am," I reply kindly, pulling off my gloves and looking around for a place to deposit them. A mahogany table holding a fresh flower arrangement and a brass coat rack are the only ornamentations in the foyer. I frown and jam the gloves into my dress pocket.

"Let us sit down to breakfast then. I'm sure Katniss is famished after weeks of eating only sea-faring food." My father winks at me. He takes my mother's arm and leads her into the dining room. I follow two paces behind, taking in the sight of the finely laid table, clad in a white cloth with a lace overlay, china place settings and shining silver utensils. Another large floral arrangement adorned the center of the table.

My stomach grumbles audibly and I move to take a seat near the front bay window. My father coughs. "Katniss, dear, let your mother be seated first."

My mother gives me a reproachful smile as my father pulls out her chair and allows her to get settled at the table. He motions for me to sit and then reaches for a small bell at his own seat. He waggles it twice, and a slight, pretty black girl appears almost instantly. Her white uniform is spotless, and her springy curls are held back by a maid's cap.

"Miss Rue, please fetch Miss Primrose for breakfast."

"Yes, sir." She curtsies and exits the room.

The aroma of fresh coffee invades my nostrils, and I close my eyes at the delightful smell. I reach for the silver urn.

"Katniss, what are you doing, dear?" my mother asks.

"Having coffee?" I reply simply. "I had coffee daily on the ship."

My mother looks stricken. "You didn't keep to daily tea?"

"No, I did. I often had tea with the captain. But I guess I acquired a taste for coffee."

My mother does not say another word about the coffee as I pour myself a cup, adding two lumps of sugar and a bit of milk. As I sip the rich brew, I cannot help but compare it to the coffee Peeta made us each day. I wonder what he is doing at this very moment—is he missing me already?

As Prim bounds into the room and takes her seat, I reach for a slice of rye toast and begin to spread marmalade across its surface. The maid my father called Rue reappears and takes her place beside the breakfront.

"So Katniss, I assume you kept your journal as I bade you to do."

My heart sinks, and I swallow the piece of toast that I have been chewing. After the events of Mr. Boggs's murder, I had completely forgotten about my journal. Truth be told, I did not have the time to write copiously once I joined the crew, and my free time selfishly often went to Peeta. I try to recall what I did jot down in the volume.

"Uh, yes, Father, I wrote in it at first." I take another quick bite of toast, buying myself a few moments to concoct a believable yarn in my mind. I swallow again. "But I was so easily distracted, you see. The captain was very generous with his time, and I learned a great deal about the running of a ship." I smile smugly. It's not even a total lie.

"Captain Snow is a gentleman, then?" my mother asks.

I hesitate. It's as loaded a question as she could possibly pose. "Uh, he was a gentleman," I answer deliberately. "You see, Mother, there was a terrible storm while we were at sea. A hurricane they called it. The sailors all said it was the worst storm they'd ever experienced. The captain…nobly stayed at the wheel during the entire tempest, and he was washed overboard."

"Dear God, have mercy," she gasps, fanning herself. Prim gapes at me.

"The first and second mates perished too," I add, watching their horrified expressions grow infinitely more appalled. "So you see, Mother, I found it very selfish to be so upset about brown skin and some gnarled hair when three good men lost their lives."

"Who captained the ship in the days after the storm, Katniss?" my father asks.

"Oh, one of the sailors. Mr. Abernathy. He did a fine job, Father. Your company will be pleased he brought the ship safely to port with all the cargo in tow." I slide my eyes at Prim, who is watching me in awe. "I hope that he will receive permanent promotion to officer as a result of his heroics."

"That is not for me to decide," my father replies curtly. "There is a process that must be followed when sailors apply for captaincies and are assigned to ships."

"It was not smooth sailing, then." My mother clucks her tongue and takes a dainty bite of her roll.

"The storm was quite fierce."

"Were you scared, Katniss?" Prim asks, her blue eyes wide.

"Yes, Little Duck, it was very scary," I reply, smiling at her. Her eyes dance with glee.

"You remembered!" As a chubby toddler, Prim had a distinct style of walking about in so that she resembled a waddling duckling. Not a trace remains of that pudgy little girl, but the nickname anchors me to the past, to this place, and so I do not hesitate to use it.

"How could I forget," I laugh, reaching over to squeeze her hand. She flinches slightly at my touch, and her fingers wander over the flesh of my palm. "What?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at my sister.

"Your hands. They are…so rough."

My mother places her fork down and reaches over, taking one of my hands in hers. Her fingers rub over my calloused flesh, and her eyes regard me harshly.

"What happened to your hands?"

"Well, uh…I had to do some of my own washing, and uh, when the storm hit and the crew lost the captain and the mates, I helped out a little. In the kitchen," I add lamely.

My father and mother exchange a concerned glance, and both turn their attention to me, their stares softening to something akin to pity.

"You poor child," my mother croons.

"Katniss, how awful for you. We are sorry you were taken advantage of in such dreadful circumstances."

"It was not really that bad," I offer quietly, playing with the edge of the linen napkin in my lap.

"Yes, well, we shall have Ms. Sae find out what kind of a soak would be best to try to bring a little softness back to those pretty hands of yours," my mother says breezily, picking up her fork again. "Maybe something with buttermilk. Right after we get your hair restored to its glory. Thanks be to God you won't have to cut it."

"Did you really talk to the sailors, Katniss?" Prim asks, and my father begins slicing his toast a bit too vigorously.

"Well, yes, Prim, most of them were very kind and told me the most fascinating stories. Mr. Odair was Scottish and—"

"Katniss, that is enough," my father interjects brusquely. "Eat your breakfast." He nods at Prim. "You had better finish eating too, young lady. Your cello teacher will be here momentarily for your music lesson."

"Yes, Father." Prim obediently begins chewing her eggs.

"Miss Rue, more coffee, please."

I watch the young girl, who does not appear much older than Prim, step forward, hoist the coffee urn, replenish my father's cup, and reassume her place. It seems so unnecessary. I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

We continue our meal in silence, the clinking of silverware against plates and the occasional giggle from Prim the only perceptible sounds. After the third suppressed snicker, my father exhales irritably and fixes a severe eye on Prim.

"Primrose Everdeen, do you care to elaborate on what is so humorous?"

Prim's eyes lower, as she tries to hide the mischief dancing in those clear blue orbs. "I am sorry, Father," she apologizes. But when she glances at me, she erupts into another fit of giggles.

"Primrose!" he reprimands sharply.

"Father, I cannot help it. I cannot keep from thinking how much Katniss resembles Rue with her skin like that. They could be sisters more than she and I."

My father sighs exasperatedly, and his voice is sharp. "Primrose, you are excused. Go to your room and get ready for your lesson."

Another awkward silence settles over the three of us, and my eyes scan the dining room, looking at the tiny pastoral prints on the rear wall and the large formal portrait of my grandfather and grandmother between two elaborate silver candelabras on the wall opposite my father. The breakfront is filled with delicate china and on its surface above the chest of drawers is a polished silver tea service.

It reminds me of Captain Snow's quarters. I find myself immediately itching to escape the room. "May I be excused?" I ask.

"Is something wrong, dear? You hardly touched your breakfast. I expected you would have been ravenous after so many days at sea eating that bland, tasteless food."

"I am very tired, Mother," I lie, wiping at my mouth with the fancy napkin. I fold it and drape it across my plate. "And the food was not that bad." As untrue as that statement is, at least Cinna and Peeta prepared the meager meals with care, with reverence.

"Very well, Katniss. You may be excused," my father replies. I push back my chair and stand, hesitating behind it.

"I do not know where my room is."

My father nods. "Miss Rue, will you kindly show Miss Katniss to her bedroom? And please see to it that she bathes and changes at once."

"Yes, sir. Follow me, Miss Katniss."

And so I follow the spritely little maid up the winding staircase to the second floor. She pauses in front of the second door on the right and makes a little gesture for me to enter.

My room is spacious and bright; two large windows let in an abundance of late-morning sunshine. The hardwood floor is polished and gleams in the sunlight. A daybed dominates the front wall, covered with a frilly bedspread and lined with lacy pillows and a pristine white teddy bear. I pick up the stuffed toy, unable to make a connection with it.

A beautiful brass vanity stands on the right side of the room. Its ornate mirror beckons me, and for the first time in months, I catch sight of my reflection. I do not recognize the girl staring back at me, but it is not because of the browned skin, the smattering of sun-kissed freckles peppering my nose, or the cracked, chapped lips that somehow seem fuller than I remember them.

It is because I know this girl will soon fade back into the one whose reflection I am used to seeing, and this knowledge evokes such a profound sadness in me. I am overwhelmed with an intense urge to drape the mirror with a sheet and then a darker desire to smash it to sharp ribbons with my fist seizes me.

"Miss Katniss, pardon." The little maid's voice interrupts my reverie, and I meet her eyes. She is a lovely little girl; her skin is darker than Cinna's but has the same unblemished smoothness to it, and her large brown eyes are expressive, like those of a doe, ringed with long fringed lashes.

"Pardon, miss, but your father wishes that you bathe and change into clean garments. I have laid them out for you." She motions to the bed, where an array of clothes is spread out. "I will draw your bath for you, miss."

"Thank you, Rue, is it?" She nods. "Thank you, Rue," I repeat. "But I can do it myself, if you just show me where it is."

"Your father would not be pleased if I did not do my job, miss."

And so I allow Rue to draw my bath and supervise my bathing, which I protest vehemently and reluctantly allow only because I don't wish to cause any trouble for her. As I rub the washcloth over my skin and watch the water darken with the filth that washes off of me, I fight to contain a blush that threatens to rise on my cheeks. The last person to touch my skin so intimately was Peeta. I do not allow myself to linger on the thought, lest I begin to yearn for his touch again.

While I am redressing—again with Rue's assistance—there is a knock on the door. Rue answers it, and a tall, red-haired girl who looks to be about my age stands there. She wears a similar outfit to Rue's, and I deduce she is another maid. She curtsies and steps into the room.

"Miss Katniss, miss, Mr. Everdeen has requested that I empty your trunk from your voyage and destroy all your old clothing, miss."

"Why should he want it destroyed?" I ask, surprised, gasping as Rue tightens the lacing on my corset. _Shit_, I think. _I had forgotten how much I hate these damned things_.

"He did not elaborate, miss. Allow me to open your trunk, miss?"

The trunk had been left under the windows, and the maid crosses to it swiftly, opening the hatch and revealing the contents. She begins to lift my old dresses and aprons, gloves and boots, piling them into a neat bundle on the floor. Her face contorts as she withdraws the next item.

"Oh!" I cry, lunging forward to snatch the cotton sailor's shirt from her outstretched fingers. "I'll keep that, thank you."

"Are you certain, miss?" she says, her face aghast, and she and Rue exchange a curious look.

"Yes," I nod, reaching into the trunk to retrieve the canvas breeches I had stowed away too. "I, uh, I wish to keep these as a memento of my voyage. You should not need to tell my father that I did so," I add hastily.

"Very well, Miss Katniss," she replies, removing the last of the clothing and gathering the pile into her arms. "Rue, master also asked that Miss Katniss's journal be brought to him in the parlor. See to that, post haste."

"Yes, Lavinia." Rue curtsies to the red-haired maid, who slips from my room without another word. She turns to me. "Miss Katniss, if you'd kindly show me where your journal is, please?"

"It should be in the trunk." She rummages through the remaining items and holds up the bound pages. I nod absently, wishing I could have skimmed it before handing it over. I really can't remember anything I wrote down.

"I shall take this to Mr. Everdeen, then, miss."

"Thank you for your help, Rue," I offer meekly, my eyes still fixed on the sailor's garb in my arms. She curtsies and exits, closing the door behind her with a faint click.

I settle onto the bed, momentarily surprised at its incredible softness. Then, impulsively, I lay back, sinking into the downy mattress. I close my eyes, my fingers caressing the rough material of the canvas trousers in my hands, and I imagine Peeta's delicious weight pressing me further into the bedding. It's so much more sumptuous than a wooden plank.

I find that cannot keep my thoughts from him no matter how much I try.

A gentle knock raps on my door again. I sit up and stuff the shirt and breeches behind a large pillow. "Come in." The door swings open a crack, and Prim's head peeks inside. A guilty look clouds her pretty porcelain face before she enters fully and closes the door quietly.

"Father will be upset if I am in here when my cello teacher arrives, but I wanted to apologize for what I said at breakfast," she says softly, gazing down at her hands. I smile ruefully and pat the bed beside me.

"It's alright, Little Duck. I know you didn't mean to be cruel. My face is rather dark right now, huh?"

"Does it hurt?"

I laugh. "No, it doesn't hurt! I did get a terrible sunburn early on, though, and that was excruciating. Fortunately, one of the sailors knew how to soothe it with the stalks of an aloe plant and that eased the pain a bit."

"What were the sailors like, Katniss?" she asks inquisitively.

It's an innocent question, but she cannot know the maelstrom of emotions that it raises in me. I pat her hand reassuringly, tamping down the visions of the men dancing through my mind. "I'll tell you all about them soon, Prim. Go back to your room so you don't get in trouble." She sighs and stands, reaching for the doorknob.

"Katniss?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad you're home," she smiles.

"Me too, Little Duck," I reply as she closes the door behind her.

I wish it wasn't just another lie.

* * *

I am still lying on my bed an hour later when my father calls for me.

After some careful thought, I vaguely recall some of the words that are penned between the pages of that journal. I do remember jotting down some of the events of the mutiny and the lashing of Cinna and the captain's rejection of me. I cannot fathom how my parents will react when they read these accounts of the captain's brutality against the crew—against me.

My hand poised at the heavy wooden door to my father's study, I knock hesitantly.

"Enter," his deep voice replies. I take a deep breath and fling open the door.

My father is seated in a winged armchair; my mother stands behind him, her hands on his left shoulder. My journal lies open in his lap.

"Have a seat, Katniss." My mother motions to the empty armchair opposite his. I take a seat and fold my hands in my lap to face them both.

"Your mother and I have read your journal, Katniss," my father begins slowly. "Although it was a struggle to do so as a result of your poor penmanship. It's distressing to consider in all your years at Panem you could not improve your handwriting even an iota."

I purse my lips but remain silent. I expected this.

"But, young lady, what is far more distressing to us is the abominable exaggerations that you have recorded. It is mortally clear to us that the time you spent around those degenerate sailors was detrimental to your character. What other explanation is there for these outlandish tales?"

I gape at him, perplexed. "I'm sorry, Father, I don't understand…"

"You seem like you got a little too comfortable with some of these sailors." My cheeks flame as I struggle to recollect what—if anything—I wrote of Peeta. I know I wrote about reading to the men, and I recall writing down Finnick's story about Annie. Did I write about Peeta kissing me after we stargazed together? I don't think that I did, but thank God I didn't pen the details of our lovemaking in the pages. My stomach twists deliciously at the memory.

"Mr. Mellark was not just a sailor," I begin slowly, easing in to mentioning Peeta. But my father ignores me.

"And the things you wrote at the expense of poor Captain Snow—"

"Poor Captain Snow!" I interrupt, incredulous. Did he not read the heinous account of Mr. Boggs' death? Cinna's lashing? Mr. Crane's murder?—all the nefarious things that Captain Snow did?

"Katniss, do not interrupt your father," my mother scolds harshly.

"You are aware, young lady, that Captain Snow was hand-chosen to command that ship as a result of his stellar reputation. My company assured me of his impeccable character and moral fortitude when I sought a vessel for your passage back home."

"A reputation is only that," I answer quietly. "You did not see the way he treated his sailors. You could not know the things he did. Do you know he accused me of murder, a murder he committed himself and framed me for! Me, your daughter!"

"Enough," he barks. "You shall not speak of the deceased in such a way. He cannot defend himself against this assassination on his character, now, can he?"

"He killed a man! Two, actually!" I shake my head in disgust, but my father's stern countenance is unyielding. "You do not believe me?" I say flatly, shaking my head again, this time in disbelief. It is like a punch to my gut, a knife in my own back that my own parents cannot see the truth standing before them.

"We are disappointed in you," my mother corrects.

"We know you are not prone to lying, Katniss. At least, the little girl we sent to Panem eight years ago was not. But your mother and I are in agreement that this journey should be swiftly erased from your memory, and it will do you good to resume your studies with a private tutor immediately. Weekly services at church will not hurt either."

My heart seizes in my chest. _I do not want to forget._

"As for this trash—" He waves my journal in the air then hands it to my mother. He reaches for a book of matches on the table beside the chair and strikes a flame. Grabbing the journal back from my mother, he tosses both the book and the match into the fireplace. I gasp as a spark catches and hungry flames lick across the logs inside, consuming my journal in their conflagration.

"Father!" I protest, choking back hot tears.

"Let it burn, Katniss," he growls. "Like the rubbish it is. You can go back to your room."

I swallow a croaking sob and stand on shaky legs.

"Katniss, you are also forbidden to speak of your journey to your sister. Not a word," my mother adds.

Unable to contain the tears any longer as they slip down my cheeks, I race from the room. The sad strains of Prim's cello serenade me as I cry myself to sleep on my bed.

* * *

The next few days pass in relative monotony. I keep to my room, mostly, insisting my meals be brought to me, and my parents do not argue. Indeed, they dissuade me from coming out, I assume for fear I will taint Prim's innocent mind with my dangerous lies.

On the fifth morning, I surprise them by arriving at the breakfast table despite not being asked to do so yet.

"You look well, dear," my mother says politely. I smile tightly. It is a lie and we both know it. I saw my haggard expression in the mirror on my vanity: the sallow cheeks, the dark swells under my grey eyes.

"Have you been reading the book that your tutor left for you?" My father glances at me over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Yes."

The book, yet another insipid morality text, has been valuable to me for one reason: it contains an copious amount of blank end pages. (The only book I truly read while shut in my room is my beloved copy of Gulliver's Travels, letting my fingers trace Peeta's words to me over and over again.) It is in these end pages that I scrawl, for stretches as long as my hand is physically capable, the details of my time on _The Mockingjay_. Every last one of them—from Cinna giving me the dirk to the failed mutiny to making love to Peeta. I write with reckless abandon.

I write to remember. I write so as not to forget. I write to feel alive again.

This time, I know the words are for my eyes alone.


	21. Chapter 21

_**Just one more chapter (and the epilogue) to go after this one. Thank you for sticking with me throughout this journey.**_

_**Ah, yes, we finally meet Gale. Hmm...that name...**_

* * *

The next morning, Lavinia disturbs my slumber by throwing open the sashes on the curtains, letting the Sunday morning sun stream into my room and politely informs me that she is to help me clean up and dress for church services.

At my mother's insistence, I am to lie for several minutes with cucumber slices over my eyes to reduce their puffiness. Lavinia washes and sets my hair, tying the upper portion of it back from my face with an olive green ribbon that matches the gown laid out on my bed. The dress has clearly been chosen to complement—or perhaps counteract, in my mother's humble opinion—my current complexion.

"You look lovely, Miss Katniss," she praises kindly when I scrutinize my reflection in the mirror.

"Thank you," I reply. I frown discreetly at the girl who stares back at me when Lavinia turns away to retrieve my gloves.

The church is a mere three blocks away so we walk, my mother carrying a large yellow parasol, her other arm linked through my father's. Prim and I walk obediently behind them.

I am fully aware of the multitude of curious eyes and gossipy whispers directed at me as we arrive at the church and my family selects a pew. Thankfully, the minister is prompt and begins the service, temporarily quelling the nosy inquisitions of the congregation.

Much of his sermon is mindless prattle to me. I let my eyes wander absently through the hymnbook, choosing instead to think about Peeta and our last night together. Is it a sin to think about premarital relations inside a church? I don't care if it is. I shift in my seat, attempting to relieve some of the heat pooling between my thighs as I recall him thrusting within me, his mouth claiming my breasts, the heat of his tongue lovingly teasing my aching nipples when Prim elbows me subtly. I feel my underclothes becoming damp.

"Why are you blushing?" she hisses through her teeth.

"I am not," I retort back.

"You are," she insists. "Mother is watching you."

I cut my eyes to my right and catch a reproachful look in my mother's blue orbs. I exhale and turn my attention back to the hymnbook, fidgeting on the wooden pew. My finger maps the page, drawing the letters P-E-E-T-A over again and again.

I dutifully alternate standing and being seated at the minister's command between convocations and hymns, my lips miming the words without uttering a sound as the service continues.

When the minister concludes his final call to worship and the final 'amen' is chanted, I file out of the church with my parents and Prim. On the large common out front, many of the ladies of the congregation have laid out tables of tea and coffee and pastries and small sandwiches. I groan inwardly at the resigned look on my mother's face, realizing she intends for us to join this social hour.

Prim scampers off immediately, disappearing into a gaggle of teenage girls who chatter and giggle animatedly.

"Reverend, that was a lovely service," I hear my mother say, and I glance up to see the minister approaching my parents.

"Thank you, Mrs. Everdeen." He shakes her hand warmly before he turns his attention to me. "This must be your elder daughter unless Primrose has suddenly cut and dyed her hair."

"This is Katniss," my father smiles, placing a strong hand on my shoulder. I give the minister a weak smile. "She has just returned from boarding school in England. Katniss, this is Reverend Flickerman." I curtsy to him politely.

"Welcome home, my dear," the minister says kindly. "Are you happy to be home?"

"Yes," I lie. Is it a sin to fib to a man of the cloth? Again, I am decidedly indifferent to the thought.

"Father, I am going to go for a walk. Is that alright?" I have no interest in standing with my parents and making polite small talk with this Reverend Flickerman. I wish to be alone with my thoughts of Peeta and my brothers I left behind on _The Mockingjay_, so terribly do I miss them all.

My father and my mother exchange a look. "Alright, young lady. But do not wander far," he says.

"Thank you, I won't."

I saunter up the cobbled street, away from the throngs of people gathered outside the church, but before I can put too much distance between them and me, an unfamiliar voice freezes me where I stand. "Catnip?"

There is only one person in the world who ever called me by that name. It has been eight long years since I last saw him. I turn apprehensively and study the tall, dark-haired man who now stands before me. His slate-gray eyes widen as they settle on my face and a broad smile claims his mouth.

"Gale?" I ask hesitantly, though I am more than certain I am correct in his identity. "Gale Hawthorne?"

"You remember me," he replies, clearly pleased. His handsome face lights up immediately.

"How could I forget?" I laugh softly. "No one else has ever dared to call me Catnip."

His eyes crinkle, but his countenance quickly becomes more serious. "It is not really proper of me to do so anymore. You are a lady now, and I should really address you as Miss Everdeen rather than Catnip or even Katniss."

"Oh, it doesn't matter to me," I say dismissively. "You can still call me Katniss. Or Catnip. Or whatever." It is difficult to admit how much I came to love my name while on that ship. I have already tired of being called 'miss.' And of course, my name had never sounded as sweet as it did in those moments Peeta and I spent together in the cabin. I fear that I will never again hear it said with such reverence, such adoration, such passion as it was when he called it out as he claimed my body with his own.

The stifling August sun is no match for the heat rising in my body. I flutter my hand in front of my face, hoping to disguise the furious blush that I feel overtaking me.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Oh, yes, just a fly," I say quickly, waving my hand more deliberately to feign shooing away the pesky fictitious insect.

"Well, welcome home," he says warmly. "I bet you are very glad to be back on American soil."

"Yes. It's nice." Nice—such a plain word.

"I am sure you are also very happy to be back with your parents and Prim. I know they missed you terribly."

"It has been a lovely reunion so far."

"Are you tired? May I walk you home?"

"Oh." I look around, seeing my father and mother still speaking with the reverend. Prim is nearby, her blonde curls bobbing as she talks excitedly with a petite red-haired girl who I do not recognize. "I should probably get back to my parents."

"I shall ask your father's permission," he adds eagerly. "It would be nice to walk and talk and get reacquainted after all these years." I bite my lip, an uneasy feeling descending upon me. _Shit_, I think. Cinna and Peeta were right. Gale Hawthorne is wasting no time—he's already courting me.

"Thank you, Gale, but that won't be necessary. I should stay with my parents. I've only been home for a few days."

"I know. We were all anticipating your arrival. I'm sure your father will not mind."

"Yes, Gale has been quite anxious to see you again after all this time," my mother interrupts, suddenly beside me, a coy grin on her face.

"Hello, Mrs. Everdeen," Gale smiles politely, raising her gloved hand to his lip.

"Hello, Gale. Is your mother nearby?"

"Oh, she and my father took Posy home. She was getting a little irritable."

"Posy?" I repeat. The name is unfamiliar to me.

"Yes, my sister."

"I know I wrote to you when she was born, Katniss," my mother says, and I frown, trying to recall such a detail. There were already three Hawthorne boys when I left for Panem, the second of which, Rory, was only a few months older than Prim.

"Of course," I answer, but I am not certain at all.

"I was just asking Katniss if I could walk her home, Mrs. Everdeen," Gale offers, and my mother's smile widens.

"How thoughtful of you, Gale. Wouldn't that be lovely, Katniss?"

"I guess." It would not be lovely and I'd rather be alone, but I am not in the mood to argue with my mother or cause a scene that will embarrass us both.

"Your father and I shall see you at home, then," she smiles contentedly and strides back to my father.

"Shall we?" Gale extends his arm to me. I take his arm, looping my hand around it, and we begin the short walk back to my house.

"I imagine it is quite a relief to be back on _terra firma _after all those days on a swaying ship," he muses. I wrinkle my brow at the small talk, but I mumble a quiet yes in reply.

"How are your brothers?" I interject after he asks another question about the ship that I don't wish to answer for fear the memories will bring tears to my eyes in my present state of melancholy.

"Oh, they're good. Rory is apprenticed to the tailor, Mr. Mitchell." He pauses. "We don't quite know about Vick yet. He kind of just enjoys causing trouble right now."

"He's a young boy," I shrug. "He is probably just having fun."

Gale furrows his brows at me. "Yes, but he will be eleven in April, Katniss. He isn't a child anymore."

_Neither am I_, I think sullenly, though Gale's condescending tone, whether intentional or not, addresses me as such.

I am thankful when we reach my front steps and Gale politely kisses my hand and bids me farewell. He does not even entertain waiting for me to invite him in. I hover in the threshold and watch his broad figure amble up the street before closing the door behind me.

My mother finds me reading on the chaise lounge in my bedroom—I quickly stowed the book and the nib in the gap between the arm and the cushion when I heard footsteps—when they return from church roughly twenty minutes later. She pries none-too-subtly about my walk with Gale, and when I offer little information, she leaves me alone to my studies—her words, not mine.

That night, in my bed, I let my fingers slip between my legs, sliding through the slick, wet heat that has accumulated there as my mind spools of images of Peeta. I imagine it is his hands that are manipulating that little bundle of nerves just as he had showed me how to do. I swirl my fingers frantically, desperate for a release, causing me to bury my face into my pillow to muffle my cries of desire as I bring my body to a shuddering climax. I do not feel the slightest bit badly about doing it either.

But when I drift off to sleep, however, there is a profoundly hollow feeling inside me, and I toss restlessly wondering if, wherever he is, he is thinking of me too.

* * *

The days pass slowly, but autumn soon arrives. A chill frosts the morning air, though some days remain unbearably hot, and a kaleidoscope of fall leaves twirl past my bedroom window when I sit in my chair and write, catching the winds that spring up almost daily.

I lament sadly how momentous wind had been to us on the ship and how little I have thought about it since I have been in Philadelphia.

My parents continue to press me to respond to Gale's repeated attempts at courtship. The Hawthornes have been recurrent dinner guests in recent weeks, and I am aware that Gale's parents seem equally invested in the progression of our relationship.

On a particular late September night, the Hawthornes join us again for dinner, and I am in a particularly sullen mood. To further exacerbate my misery, although Gale's brother, Rory, has joined us for dinner, (I am not immune to the adoring gazes my sister persists in aiming in the young boy's direction) but his youngest two siblings have been left at home with a nanny, so I cannot rely on their antics to divert any attention from me.

Mr. Hawthorne is particularly curious as to the details of my journey on this evening, and I find it exceedingly difficult to answer his repeated queries. When coffee and dessert are served, I figure he's finally done probing, but after the third subsequent question about the hurricane, I clench my fists in my lap, fingers clutching the linen napkin so hard I see my knuckles fade from their peachy-flesh tone to a white that disappears against the blanched fabric.

"Katniss," my mother says sharply. "Mr. Hawthorne asked you a question."

I feel seven pairs of eyes on me. "My apologies," I reply, but my voice lacks sincerity and my mother's narrowed eyes confirms it. "I am sorry, Mr. Hawthorne." I plaster a tight smile on my lips. "What did you wish to know?"

"The wind, my dear. What was the wind like during the hurricane?"

A bittersweet tremor seizes my heart as I recall my last conversation with Cinna. I remember his words so clearly, warning me to be careful of the wind I choose. I cut my eyes to Gale; he watches me with rapt adoration, and the irony is not lost on me that his name itself means a harsh wind.

"George, that is a foolish question," Mrs. Hawthorne scolds, carefully spiraling her teaspoon through her coffee as she adds a few drops of milk to it. "The poor girl would have kept to her cabin during such a brutal storm."

I ignore the visual warnings that both my parents give me with their eyes. "The wind was unimaginable, Mr. Hawthorne," I reply, looking Gale's father right in the eyes. "It could knock you right off you feet. I actually hit the starboard wall—"

"Katniss, that is enough," my mother says. "She has quite the active imagination after so many days alone at sea."

"I was not alone," I counter. "And I am not imagining things, Mother," I add sharply. "I was there. I saw it. I lived it." I turn back to Mr. Hawthorne. "It took days for the bruise to heal where I hit the wall when I was caught in a particularly vicious gust."

Both Gale and Vick's eyes widen, but whether it is from admiration and horror or both I cannot discern.

"You will have to excuse Katniss," my father says smoothly. "It was a very difficult voyage, and now even a few weeks later, she can get caught up in these bad memories, can't you, dear?" His tone is softer than my mother's and his grey eyes implore me to play along.

"Actually, I would like to be excused," I pipe up, earning a pointed look from my mother, and a puzzled glance from Gale. I wipe my mouth and place my napkin beside my untouched lemon meringue pie. I want nothing more than to go to my room, close the room and be alone.

My mother, however, has other ideas. "Gale, why don't you take Katniss into the parlor?" she offers, her eyes still locked on me. "You can keep her company while she takes a few moments to gather herself before you rejoin us for the rest of dessert."

"Absolutely, Mrs. Everdeen," he smiles politely, wiping his mouth with a napkin and placing his fork on his pie plate. I do not tell him he still has whipped cream at the corner of his mouth when he helps me stand and escorts me into the parlor. Other than our walk home from church on the first day we reacquainted, this is the first time I have been alone with him.

I close the French doors and sink to the sofa, wincing as the boning of my corset pinches me when I hunch over.

"You are not yourself tonight," he says gently, sitting down several feet away from me.

I shake my head. What a foolish statement. This man doesn't know the first thing about who I really am. He does not know me at all.

"You seem so sad," he continues, shifting a bit closer to me, reaching for my hand. I cannot help but compare how soft his skin is against mine, how different it is from Peeta's touch. It's too soft, really.

"I'm fine, Gale," I reply.

"It's okay that I am holding your hand, isn't it? I do not want you to think I am moving too fast."

I stifle a laugh at the sheer silliness of his comment, the implication that holding my hand is an intimate gesture. He can't possibly know, of course, that I am hardly the innocent maiden he thinks that I am, but that does not make his comment any less ridiculous to me. "It's fine, Gale," I echo.

He smiles contentedly. "I like you, Katniss. I couldn't be happier with the arrangement our parents have made."

My head snaps up. "What arrangement?" I ask suspiciously.

"Uh, well…" he stammers, clearly flustered by my question, as if I should have been more privy to this so-called arrangement than I actually am.

"Tell me, Gale," I demand, releasing his hand and leaping to my feet.

"Our, uh, marriage?"

"Marriage!" I cry, my breath catching in my throat. "I am sixteen!"

His grey eyes, so like my own, widen and he too jumps to his feet. "Well, not right this moment, but yes, marriage, Katniss. I am eighteen after all. I thought your parents told you. I mean, you know that I am courting you—"

"Are you courting me because you want to, Gale, or because our parents decided you would?" I ask sharply.

He laughs nervously and rakes a hand through his short hair before scratching at the edge of his short muttonchops. "I like you, Katniss." He repeats his earlier statement, and I want to scream at the simplicity of it. "I have been waiting for you to return."

"How long have you known you were to court me, Gale?"

"Uh, for a while, I guess," he replies quietly. "I think it has always been assumed that you and I were meant to be together."

"Well, no one ever told me," I say bitterly. Cinna was right. Peeta was right. They both were, I think again. This is not a choice I am going to have any say in. I feel like retching as my stomach pitches violently. I am trapped.

Gale frowns. "You were an ocean away, Katniss."

"My parents wrote me letters. It is not that the opportunity was not there to inform me."

"Does the idea of marrying me one day upset you, Katniss?"

I sense that he is trying to stay calm, not to show the irritation that I have managed to generate in him. And instead of answering his question honestly, I decide to do something rash, something that the very thought of repulses me. I speak a silent apology to Peeta and impulsively, I shove Gale down to the couch, lean in, and press my lips to his.

"Katniss," he gasps, clasping my shoulders in his firm grasp. "What are you doing? This is not right."

"Shhh, Gale. Be quiet," I order, climbing onto his lap, shifting the many layers of my petticoats and skirts as I settle against him. I draw his head towards mine again and slant my mouth over his again.

It feels nothing like kissing Peeta. My heart seizes painfully as Gale's lips wrestle against mine in a sloppy embrace. He is eager at first, and beneath me, I feel him growing hard in response to my machinations. But no sooner does his erection swell does he grab me again and pushes me aside as roughly as he can without hurting me. I assume he thinks he can hide it and I will not have any understanding of his body's natural reaction. I guess perhaps I should be flattered that I've elicited such a response from him, that I genuinely raise a desire in him. But in contrast, his lips leave me cold and my body aches for another.

He leaps off the couch and paces frantically before me. "Katniss, stop. This is not right. We should not be doing this. What has gotten into you?" I slump over, trying to catch my breath and come to my senses. My veins feel as though they are clogged with ice floes, so absent is any warmth from the kiss I just forced on poor unsuspecting Gale.

It is not truly his fault that I cannot be the girl he expects to marry someday. And I feel a slight twinge of remorse for using Gale in such a cruel manner. He cannot know that I am hopelessly and irrevocably in love with another man—because I know for absolute certainty, standing in my parents' parlor, that I will never love another man the way I love Peeta Mellark.

My lips tremble, and I gently touch the pads of my fingertips to them. The tears slip down my cheeks before I can attempt to contain them. Gale stops pacing, his eyes wide with horror, and he rushes to my side, shaking his head. "No, no, Katniss. Please don't cry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to react like that."

I blink through my blurred vision, shrugging off his arms as he tries to wrap me into a comforting hug. I'm not crying because of him, after all.

"I shouldn't have done that," I whisper, the guilt swelling in me anew. "I should be apologizing to you. I'm sorry." And without another word, I stagger to my feet and race from the room, tearing up the staircase to seek refuge in my room, where I dissolve into a flood of tears.

Gale must not say anything to my parents or perhaps they are just too fed up with my antics to care because neither of them is concerned enough to check on me for the remainder of the evening. I imagine them making empty excuses for my behavior, apologizing to the Hawthornes and promising that the next dinner I will be more agreeable.

My stomach aches painfully at the thought, and it is nearly impossible to seek solace from my slumber that night. I don't even touch myself to thoughts of Peeta before slipping into a restless sleep. I awaken myself screaming several times, though no one comes to my aid, and I wonder if I imagine it. I hunger for Peeta's arms around me to chase away these nightmares. I feel utterly alone.

* * *

After breakfast the next morning, Prim's tutor arrives, and my parents head to Market Street to allow Mother to arrange for a few new gowns to be made. Autumn and winter bring lots of festivities, she explains cheerfully before they set off.

I linger at the breakfast table, repeatedly plunging a spoon into my oatmeal without once lifting it to my mouth when the front door bell chimes loudly. I scurry from the dining room, beating Thresh to the door by several spaces.

"Miss Katniss?" he asks, taken aback.

I throw open the door before he can protest further. A short red-haired boy stands on the front step, earnest expression on his freckled face. He thrusts forward a package bound with brown wrapping paper.

"Delivery for Miss Katniss Everdeen," he announces loudly. I smile triumphantly at Thresh, who looks unnerved by my behavior, but he quietly retreats from the door and disappears into the kitchen.

I carefully unwrap the crinkly paper, revealing a small black box. When I lift the lid, I gasp at what is nestled on a bed of crushed red velvet inside. It is a golden mockingjay brooch. A small pearl winks at me from its place as the bird's knowing eye. It is identical to the figurehead that is so etched in my mind.

There is no note, but my heart flutters hopefully. "Wait!" I cry, stumbling down the stairs and running after the boy. "Wait!" I repeat, and the boy turns around. "Who sent you?" I demand, my heart thumping wildly now.

"Can't say, miss," the boy answers. "Mr. Heavensbee took the order."

"Mr. Heavensbee?" I echo.

The boy nods. "The jeweler? I'm his page. I do know it was commissioned."

"Commissioned," I whisper.

"Yes, miss. Made special. Mr. Heavensbee received a sketch…"

"A sketch," I breathe. My pulse quickens, and the beats of my heart accelerate in tandem. It is a sign. My heart sings. "Did you see the sketch? When did he receive it?"

"Yes, miss, I saw it. A few weeks ago. Postmarked from Baltimore. Mr. Heavensbee showed it to me and to his apprentice. He was quite enthralled with it—the detail, the intricacy. I'd wager he probably saved it too. The only other order was that the design was to be fashioned and delivered on this specific date."

"Wait right here," I sputter, spinning on my heel and bolting for the house, my skirts billowing behind me as I dash up the winding staircase to my bedroom. From atop my bureau I grab three shillings and race back down the stairs, breathless and alight with excitement as I drop the coins into the stunned boy's hand. "These are for you. Thank you."

I race back to the house and slam the front door, leaning back against it, the pin clutched in my hand. I cannot contain the silly grin that graces my lips, and it is then I come to feel Thresh's eyes on me.

"Is everything alright, Miss Katniss?"

"Better than okay," I murmur, my eyes tracing the flawless lines of the brooch. I allow my finger to ghost over the iridescent pearl, and my stomach flips giddily. I feel hopeful for the first time in days.

Thresh makes a motion to leave. "Wait! Thresh?" I call.

"Miss?"

"Did my father's morning paper come today?"

"Yes, miss. It should be in his study where I left it. He did not finish reading it before he and your mother departed."

"Thank you!" I exclaim. "Oh, and Thresh? Please do not speak a word of this delivery to my parents!" I whirl about and leave him, probably even more perplexed, in the foyer as I rush to my father's study. I am fully aware that I should not be in here, but my intrusion is nary a thought on my mind as I locate the paper, neatly folded beside the leather armchair. Heart drumming steadily, the thumping resonating all the way to my ears, I carelessly flip the feathery pages and frantically scan line after line until, triumphantly, I find what I am so desperately hoping for: **Departures for Europe**.

_Brig, Mockingjay, to set sail at morning's tide, September the twenty-third. Captain Haymitch Abernathy, master. _

September the twenty-third. I gasp, covering my mouth, stifling a scream of joy. September twenty-third is tomorrow.

It is incredibly difficult to act nonchalant for the remainder of the afternoon, but I do manage, and quite convincingly, I might add. I am the picture of the good submissive daughter at tea, allowing Prim to dominate the conversation, prattling on about her cello and some cotillion that will be held in a few weekends and how she needs a new gown and that Mother should have allowed her to go with her to the dressmaker that morning.

"Katniss, dear, how is your reading coming along?"

"Fine, Mother," I smile politely, sipping my tea.

"Have you considered which dress you would like to wear to the opera this Friday evening?" my mother asks.

"What opera?"

My response clearly surprises her. "Did Gale not ask you to accompany him to the opera this Friday evening?"

"No," I reply.

Her brows furrow, and she looks visibly puzzled. "He did not? Your father and I saw Hazelle at the seamstress this morning and she was under the impression that he had already done so."

Prim sits quietly, watching the scene unfold as if she were viewing some kind of Greek tragedy. Her pinky finger extends from her teacup, and her blue eyes dart back and forth between Mother and me.

"Well, there's always tomorrow." I swallow back a smile with the remainder of my tea.

Later that evening, I am lounging on the porch swing in the rear garden, the autumn twilight descending upon me when the weight on the bench shifts, and I am surprised to find my father seated beside me.

"Homer?" he nods at my open copy of _The Odyssey_ that rests in my lap. I frown, knitting my brows, thinking he is about to scold my choice of reading.

"I thought I would take a break from the essays on patience and read a slightly more thrilling account of the same virtue. This poor man sailed for years to get back to his beloved wife. And she waited all those years for him, spurning suitors and remaining faithful to him. It's inspiring, Father." I hand him the text, in case he wishes to affirm its contents. He cannot understand my true intentions for picking up the story, the connection I feel to it. A few weeks is hardly ten years, but it has certainly felt like an eon. My heart empathizes with Penelope. I know how she must have felt, waiting for her beloved Odysseus to come home to her.

He shakes his head and smiles kindly. "It's a difficult work of literature, Katniss, that's all. I am impressed with your perseverance to read such a thing." He clears his throat. "I am pleased with the progress you are making, my dear. I know it has been an adjustment coming home after all those years at Panem and after such a distressing experience on your return voyage."

"Thank you, Father." A niggle of guilt tugs at my heart at his words of praise.

"I know you thought I was harsh in my response to your journal, Katniss, but I hope that the longer you are home and in your proper place, you will realize that I only want the best for you. Your mother and I have so much hope for you, my dear. You are going to have a wonderful life here. A bright future." He places a hand on mine and squeezes lightly.

"Thank you, Father," I repeat, plastering a sweet smile on my face.

"Do not stay out here much longer, my dear girl. The light is getting poor. You shall hurt your eyes." He rises, sending the swing pitching backwards gently as he presses a kiss to my head.

"Good night," I murmur, my eyes following him as he crosses the garden and opens the French doors, disappearing back into the house.

I do not pick up my book; I curl my boots underneath me on the swing and stare up into the branches of the sugar maple that dominates the rear of the house. Patches of the inky indigo sky peek through where leaves have already unfurled and let go in anticipation of the coming colder months. I wonder how different it will be sailing the Atlantic in the chill of October instead of the oppressive heat of summer.

Finally I retreat into the house, allowing Lavinia to supervise my bathing—I cannot wait to be rid of that indignity—and my dressing for bed.

Once she has left and I've waited a few moments, I pad down the hall, worrying my lower lip with my teeth as I hesitate outside Prim's room. I draw in a deep breath and rap my knuckles lightly against her closed door.

There is no reply. I crack open the door and a tiny shaft of light from the hall spills into the darkened room. Muted moonlight from behind her curtained windows bathes Prim in a bluish glow. Her sweet face is slack with sleep, a gentle smile curved onto her pale pink lips, and I cannot help but wonder what pleasant dream she is lost in. Is she dreaming about the Hawthorne boy? Perhaps my parents will forge a Hawthorne-Everdeen betrothal one day after all.

I withdraw the book from behind my back, opening the front cover and scanning what I have written there one final time:

_My dear Primrose-_

_When you finally discover this, you will understand. It can be our secret. I love you, Little Duck, and I know you will do Mother and Father proud. _

_-Katniss_

Crossing to her bookshelf, I shove the morality text between two other books. Most of Prim's reading currently comes from her tutors so I figure it will be some time before she even locates the usurper among her collection. Maybe by then, she will be old enough not to judge me, to know why I had to do it.

I take a last lingering look at my beautiful little sister, blonde hair spread like a halo against her pillow, and I blink back the tears that threaten to well in my eyes. "Good bye, Little Duck," I whisper before I creep back to my room to wait again.

* * *

An hour later, the house is completely quiet. My parents have turned in for the evening, and the servants have all gone to sleep. I toss back my sheets and hop off the bed, my bare feet dancing across the cool wood as I reach my bureau and rummage through the neatly folded petticoats and corsets until my fingers graze the rough material I seek.

I smile as I slip out of my nightdress and let it pool around my ankles. For a moment, I contemplate bundling it and bringing it along, as I imagine Peeta might enjoy seeing me in it, but it's part of this life and will only serve as a reminder of such, and so I leave it behind in the drawer.

The canvas trousers and cotton shirt feel delightfully liberating against my skin after so many days of restrictive garments. I reluctantly lace up my rattiest pair of boots—their soles are scuffed and one lace is frayed—since I cannot make the entire walk to the dock barefoot. I do grab a few ribbons from my vanity; they will come in handy securing my hair in the braid that Peeta likes so much. I pin the brooch to my breeches as the fabric is sturdier, and I scan the room a final time.

It is laughable how easily I climb out of my window and scale the trellis that deposits me into the rear garden. The latched gate is also no deterrent; I vault over the wall with minimal effort, taking one last look at the house I tried to call home.

But a house and a home are not always the same thing.

The moon lights my way as I stride hurriedly along the deserted streets of Philadelphia until the familiar sounds of the water lapping at the dock lifts my heart in a way I still cannot put into words. I begin to run, my pulse quickening, my boots creating soft thwacks against the wood planks.

_The Mockingjay_ stands moored to the dock, restored to her former beauty, a new mast in place. In the silver glow, the figurehead looks unearthly.

The ship is entirely dark, save for a lantern hanging near the gangplank. I hear the occasional shuffling of feet and come to realize that someone is pacing the quarterdeck, keeping watch. I hold my breath as the mysterious figure comes into my line of sight and reaches up to tug the bell. With each reverberating ring, my heart thrums louder. Five bells.

I release the breath and march up the gangplank. My heavy footsteps draw attention.

"Who goes there?" I swallow the lump that rises as I hear his voice. "Who goes there?" A lantern swings inches from my face as I reach the top and come face to face with him.

"Cinna!" I sob, choking out happy tears as recognition dawns on his kind face.

"Katniss! What are you…"

My lower lip trembles and my voice quivers. "I've come home, Cinna."

He draws me against him, slipping his arms around me. We hug and sway in the moonlight, neither of us saying a word. He finally lets go of me and holds me at arm's length, studying me carefully in the dimness.

"This is my home, Cinna," I repeat, wiping at my eyes. "With you. With Haymitch. With Peeta."

A wry smile crosses Cinna's face. "He will be ecstatic to see you," he says quietly.

"Cinna, who the hell are you—" Haymitch stops in his tracks as his steely eyes land on me. They instantly soften and crinkle. "Hey, sweetheart."

"Haymitch," I reply. The smile that creeps onto his lips fills me with warmth.

"What are you doin' here at almost three o'fuckin' clock in the morning?"

"She's come home," Cinna answers for me.

"Captain Abernathy," I declare boldly. "I've come to sign on to this voyage, if you'll have me."

"Well, I'll be damned," he laughs, shaking his head.

I cough a little and straighten my back. "So will you have me?"

"I dunno. Let me ask my second mate." Haymitch turns to Cinna and shrugs. "Should we take her?"

I cannot contain the squeal that bubbles from me. "Cinna! You're second mate?"

He smiles. "Aye, Katniss. It was quite a pleasant surprise to learn of my promotion."

"That's…oh my God, that's wonderful!" I launch myself into his arms again, and he laughs that gentle, calm laugh.

"Thank you."

I pause. "Why not first?" I accuse, looking at Haymitch playfully.

"Not my choice, remember. And it's a big enough step for Cinna to make second mate. Chaff is first mate for this voyage. But perhaps someday the world will be ready for a black first mate…or a captain." He winks at me.

"So, um, Haymitch…Captain Abernathy, is—"

Haymitch raises a hand, effectively cutting me off. "The boy is down in the galley. He's officially our cook this voyage. Cinna's promotion opened the door for him."

My heart lifts, knowing the position means a myriad of possibilities for Peeta. _For us. _

"Go. He should be down there now. Some of the crew has yet to arrive, but he's been here for the last few hours." Haymitch and Cinna both give me expectant smiles. "Waitin' for you. He hoped you'd come."

"I knew you'd come," Cinna adds.

My pulse is now galloping like a steed, and my body is electric with anticipation and need. I turn to go below deck and have just reached the steps when Haymitch calls after me. "Welcome home, sweetheart."

* * *

_Thank you to ILoveRynMar and jeeno2 for their unwavering support from the beginning and to streetlightlove and IzzySamson for their continued support and friendship. And many more thanks to all the readers who have loyally read and reviewed every chapter. I appreciate the support more than you know. The reviews and PMs that I have received from you have kept me inspired and lets me know that yes, people are reading and are enjoying what they've read. I'm not on tumblr and I really do enjoy the little interaction I get with you all here. _

_The final chapter will be posted next Thursday since I like the synergy of ending this story's journey on the fictitious day that it began. Until then. ~C~_


	22. Chapter 22

_Thank you for taking this journey with me. This is a much shorter chapter but I hope it packs an emotionally satisfying punch._**  
**

___The rest of the notes will follow the epilogue. _

* * *

Peeta's back is to me as I reach the galley. A lantern lights the small space, illuminating him in streaky shadows. My entire body quivers with excitement and anticipation being this close to him again.

I lean against the doorframe and study him in silence for several moments, resisting the overwhelming urge I have to throw myself at him. I watch the way his broad shoulders shift under his thin sailor's shirt and the rippling of the muscles of his upper arms as he dries the dishes. He is complete perfection.

He finally turns around and the look on his face is reward enough for my remaining quiet. I can tell he is stunned speechless, and we stare at each other for what seems like an eternity before he finally finds his voice.

"Are you real?" he whispers, wiping his wet hands against a ratty towel, which he tosses onto the small ledge behind him, his brilliant eyes riveted on mine.

I nod, electricity surging in my veins as he begins to cross the floor and close the short gap between us. He reaches out and gingerly traces the line of my jaw, rubbing the pad of his thumb over my trembling lips, touching his index finger to the tip of my nose.

"Real, Peeta," I murmur against his hand, kissing his palm before he withdraws it and snakes it behind my head, cupping my neck gently.

"Real," he echoes. "You're really here." He smiles, those familiar blue orbs shining with joy. "God, I missed you." His other hand joins the first at the nape of my neck, and he guides my lips up as his mouth slants down.

My lips tingle with recognition as he kisses me, at first tentatively as if he is slowly breathing life back into me. He draws back and his fingers travel down to the brooch pinned at my hip.

"You got it." His eyes sparkle, gleaming with pride. "You knew."

"Yes, I knew it was you right away," I grin, closing my fingers over his atop the pin.

"I was nervous I would get you in trouble, having a package sent to your home. I wanted it to be a necklace, a locket actually, but I feared that you could not wear that as discreetly as you might a brooch. I sent that telegram to the jeweler in the city as soon as we landed in Baltimore." His free hand cups my jaw lovingly.

"How did you get back here to Philadelphia so quickly? I thought it would be months before we could see each other again."

He smiles roguishly. "I might have persuaded Haymitch to take a detour."

"Peeta!" I exclaim, clapping my hand over my mouth. He seizes my palm and presses a kiss to it.

"I'm just teasing, Katniss. Once the ship was repaired, Haymitch received the orders for our departure. It was sheer dumb luck the company who appointed him needed us to depart from Philadelphia. Haymitch loves you, but even he would have been powerless to change an order as such." He steps back from me, holding me at bay, our fingers linked. "I was actually set to sail with another captain from Baltimore to Kingston in the colony of Jamaica. As soon as Haymitch got word of his promotion and his assigned route, I withdrew my articles and signed on with him." His brows knit above his beautiful blue eyes.

"What?" I ask suspiciously as his gaze looks me up and down.

"I'm just surprised to see you wearing that. I mean, I thought you might come dressed more casually than you departed, but I didn't expect you in your sailor's attire."

I bite my lip, excitement flurrying about in my stomach. I realize he assumes I am here for a brief visit and then I will return to the guardianship of my parents, awaiting his next visit. "I'm dressed for work, Peeta," I say slyly, stepping towards him and moving my hands to link behind his head, playing with the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck. He's recently had a haircut.

His blue eyes reflect confusion at first. "Katniss, what are you saying?"

My smile widens. "I'm here to stay, Peeta. With you. Always."

He shakes his head, stunned. "What?"

"I ran away, Peeta. This is my home now."

"Oh, Katniss, love, you can't do that," he chides me gently, dragging his fingers through his hair. He moves away from me and begins pacing in the small space.

"I did. I did it. It's done," I begin. "I can't live that life, Peeta. It's not me anymore. I can't be the Katniss Everdeen they want me to be." My heart begins an erratic thump, and my throat constricts. "I thought you'd understand. I thought you'd be happier," I whisper, lowering my eyes.

He is before me again at once, wrapping me into a fierce embrace. "I am ecstatic to see you, Katniss. It's not that."

"Then what?" I probe, my voice still edged with sorrow.

"I know what it's like to run away—to leave your whole life behind. Your family...your sister...I didn't want it to come to that for you," he sighs. "I shouldn't have sent that brooch so soon."

I grab his arm. "Don't you dare say that. This would have happened anyway. If not now, a month from now, a year from now…" I trail off and it is my turn to pace. "You can't imagine what it was like, Peeta. From the moment I got home, I was scrutinized and criticized. My face was too brown, my hands too rough. You'd have thought I'd cut off a limb my mother was so horrified over my dirty and mangled hair—"

My blood sizzles and I find myself clenching my fists at my sides as I stalk about the tiny cupboard. The rage and anger that has accumulated within me since I departed this ship a month ago bubbles over, and I can finally unleash it. "They didn't believe me, Peeta," I continue, my heart fluttering painfully at the memory of my journal burning in the hearth, the flames turning the pages to cinders. "They accused me of making up stories about poor Captain Snow and forbade me from talking to my sister about my journey." I continue to ramble, pouring out every injustice I felt my parents had forced upon me in the last thirty-three days. Peeta watches me wordlessly, listening rapt as I vent.

And then I get to Gale. Peeta's eyes widen imperceptibly when I explain the courting began almost immediately and reveal it seemed that my parents had promised me to Gale Hawthorne years ago, never bothering to inform me of such a monumental decision.

"I told you that your parents probably had plans for you," he says softly.

"I never told them about you," I whisper. "I think I knew it was pointless. They wouldn't have listened. Not if they didn't believe me about Snow. And I couldn't bear to listen to them say anything bad about you." My pacing increases. "It was awful, Peeta. I wasn't home for more than a few days and there he was. I think I endured a dozen dinner parties with Gale and his family in the month I was home."

He remains quiet, his expression serious.

"And I should tell you I kissed him, Peeta," I confess, finally stopping my frantic circles and standing before him. There can be no secrets between us, so I know I owe him this truth. "But it's not what you think. I didn't kiss him for any kind of emotional connection, I promise you. I was just so infuriated that night that I had to act out, try to get him to stop being so damn proper. And that was the most shocking thing I could think of at that moment."

"And I'm sure he was plenty shocked," Peeta replies dryly, though I don't sense any anger or betrayal in his tone.

"It was ridiculous," I say softly, reaching for his hands again. "He pushed me away and asked what had gotten into me."

"I cannot imagine a man who would push away a beautiful woman who is trying to kiss him, decorum or not. Especially not one who is to be his wife one day." He locks his eyes on mine, and my breath hitches at the voracious look in them.

"I knew without a doubt that I could never marry him. I felt nothing, Peeta," I whisper, drawing my thumb along the lines of his jaw, which I note is freshly-shaven. "It was like pressing my lips against a brick wall. Nothing like this," I murmur, rising up on my toes and tilting my head slighty so our mouths connect perfectly.

My lips have barely touched his when his hand roughly lands on the small of my back and he draws me against him possessively. He claims me ravenously, his lips moving eagerly, urgently over mine. "You're mine," he growls, nipping at my bottom lip with his teeth, and I whimper, my body reacting instantly to his tone. I have not seen this side of him, and it thrills me.

"I'm yours. Only yours," I reply, parting my lips to welcome his familiar tongue. His kiss slows considerably and turns achingly sensual. Our hands roam each other's bodies, and I gasp when I feel his palms cup my bottom. In response, I boldly snake my hand down between us, gripping him through his pants. He groans and bites my earlobe, bucking against my hand.

"I wish I could have known that I would see you more than just this evening. I only purchased three condoms in Baltimore. They are not cheap."

"Three?" I tease, kissing a trail up his neck to suckle at the soft skin beneath his ear. "If you only thought we had tonight you had lofty plans, Mr. Mellark."

He laughs softly. "Yes, I did. But now I cannot fathom how I am going to make three condoms last two months. It is a long voyage to England. I suppose we can get creative. I can pull out before—"

"Shh." I silence him. "We'll figure it out. But you're going to need one of them right now," I whisper seductively, cupping him again. "I want you. Please."

"They're in the forecastle with my things," he supplies, gritting his teeth as I slip my hand inside his trousers and begin to pump him up and down experimentally. His eyelids grow heavy, and his face is awash in ecstasy with each stroke of my hand.

"What are we waiting for?" I ask.

In response, Peeta scoops me into his arms. It feels romantic and feminine to be held in such a way again, and he carries me as easily as if I was a sack of flour. At this angle, I have the perfect vantage to trail my lips up his neck again and my mouth maps the skin, pressing heated kisses along his jaw. I can feel his pulse thrumming beneath my tongue when it dips under the bone there.

He moves swiftly through steerage and reaches the forecastle in no time, fumbling with the handle before kicking the door open. It bangs shut behind us so forceful is the motion. He sets me down gently and gives me a lusty smile as he slides his trunk in front of the door. My stomach twists in anticipation, and a shudder runs through me with the intensity of his gaze. "We're not going to the cabin?" I ask as he slowly approaches me, those clear blue eyes nearly black with desire.

"The other sailors are not due to report until an hour before departure. We have at least a few bells," he replies, stopping in front of me. His fingers close around my braid and he twirls the plait around his hand. The sensation raises the hair on the back of my neck and slithers down my spine.

"You're overdressed," he whispers, dropping his hands to my waist and tugging at the hem of my shirt. I give him a coy smile, dragging my bottom lip between my teeth as I raise my arms and he slowly and deliberately pulls the blouse from my body. The cool air puckers my nipples and my breasts tingle before the warm wetness of Peeta's mouth covers one tight bud, his tongue flattening it to circle it again and again. I whimper and clutch at his blond locks insistently, molten heat spreading through me. He lavishes my other breast with the same attention before cupping them both in his hands while his tongue traces a lazy path down between my ribs and past my belly.

He keeps his eyes focused on me much of the time; the reverent look that he gives me makes me feel so beautiful. His mouth is the brush, and I am his canvas.

We shed the rest of our clothes and move to Peeta's hammock. It will be a wholly different experience making love in the tautly strung canvas versus the plank in my old cabin—our movements will need to be slow and deliberate. The thought excites me more.

"I want to try something," he murmurs huskily, nipping my earlobe with his teeth before sitting back on his haunches and studying me carefully. The hammock sways slightly with the distribution of his weight. The hungry look in his eyes lights a fire in my belly.

"Okay," I reply slowly. He moves off the hammock to kneel beside me, and I sit up in protest.

He shakes his head. "Uh uh," he scolds, gently pushing me back against the canvas. "Trust me."

My stomach flips uncertainly but my nerves sizzle expectantly . Still, nothing can prepare me for the shock that jolts through me when he coaxes my legs apart and lowers his face towards my most private area. "Peeta," I squeal, struggling to sit up again. He glances up at me, eyes half-lidded, heavy with desire and shakes his head more purposefully this time. One strong hand traverses up my thigh and settles on my abdomen to hold me down.

"Trust me, Katniss. Please?"

"Okay," I whisper, closing my eyes.

Peeta's warm breath ghosts over me, increasing the heat between my legs, and I cry out and my eyes fly open as an unfamiliar sensation sweeps over me. Peeta flashes me a wolfish smile and I gasp as I watch him drag his tongue up the length of me.

"Oh my god," I tremble. "What are you doing?"

"Shh." With another languid lick of his tongue, I arch off the hammock and bite my lip to keep from screaming. His tongue swirls around the damp heat, circling the fleshy kernel, and the feeling that begins to overwhelm me is indescribable.

I close my eyes again and reach my hands down to fist into his hair, scraping my nails along his scalp as he begins to increase the speed of his ministrations. Suddenly, he latches onto me and sucks greedily and I lose my breath somewhere between my lungs and my throat. All that escapes is a strangled moan. I thrash from side to side, fighting against Peeta's steadying hands. I moan again, and Peeta responds with one of his own, which vibrates against me and intensifies the sensations his mouth is creating.

He presses his tongue insistently against the bundle of nerves he has been attacking—the one I stroked so often at night thinking of him—and I come apart, ebbs of pleasure rolling through me and flooding my vision with bursts of color. I pant his name, chanting it over and over again as his tongue slows to tender, leisurely licks. My body finally stops shuddering and when I open my eyes—and it takes some effort—he is smiling at me like a cat who swallowed a mouse whole.

"You enjoyed that," he smirks. My chest heaves as I struggle to regain my breath.

"Yes, God, yes." I blush furiously. "I cannot believe you just did that."

"Good." He straddles me. "Because I enjoyed doing it. And I am going to do it again." He presses a kiss to my mouth. "And again." Another kiss.

"Where did you—"

"I might have done a little research," he says slyly, leaning down to capture my lips fully. He tastes tangy and I realize, shockingly, that he tastes of _me_. My blush deepens at the recognition. "And talked more with Finnick." He laughs.

"I guess I am going to have to learn a few things on my own if I am to keep up with you," I mumble against his mouth. He smiles down at me while he adjusts himself and enters me slowly, deliciously, filling me as he intertwines our fingers above my head.

"We'll learn together, my love," he whispers, eyes riveted to mine. "We have all the time in the world now. You're home."

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

_**Baltimore, Maryland, 1847**_

My name was Katniss Everdeen.

The summer of 1832 changed the girl I was and the woman I was meant to be.

It has been fifteen years since I last saw my parents and my precious sister. I think about them from time to time, but I do not regret my decision to leave them behind. Not for a moment.

Peeta and I sailed for five years together, always under the captaincy of Haymitch, and I always signed on under an assumed name lest anyone connect me to my father's company. (They did not.) Peeta's dream became my dream, and we were able to save for the bakery twice as fast with his cook's pay and my sailor's wages. That was not to say we didn't manage to enjoy our time, sailing the Atlantic. We saw exotic places as we pulled into other ports of Europe and the Caribbean and we spent many long nights making love anywhere we could be alone together. (The beach on the island of Jamaica was certainly my favorite.)

On the eve of our last voyage, with the sun sinking into the waves behind us, Peeta and I stood atop the quarterdeck where we stargazed on that first fateful voyage. With Haymitch by my side to give me away and Finnick as our witness, Cinna married us. We exchanged simple gold bands; I did not wish for anything fancy. For me, that mockingjay brooch will always be the real token of our commitment to one another, and someday, I will pass it along to our daughter when I tell her the story of how her father and I met and fell in love.

Peeta's smile was wide and vibrant when Cinna pronounced us man and wife, and Haymitch had to clear his throat to get us to cease our euphoric kisses. The older man's eyes glistened with tears, though I couldn't tell if they were tears of joy at seeing us wed or tears of sadness that we were leaving him.

We bade farewell to our fellow sailors when the ship docked in Baltimore. There were sad goodbyes and Peeta reminded the men that there would always be a place for them should any of them wish to visit us. (Most of them have indeed dropped by in recent years, and Haymitch stays with us any time he is between voyages.) Hand in hand, we departed _The Mockingjay_ and headed into the city to begin the next leg of our journey together.

Peeta found the perfect location just a few blocks from the harbor, and we toiled to turn the modest brick front niche into a homey business. He was proudest of the sign that he commissioned to hang above the doorway and the lettering that he painted himself onto the large window that faced the street. It read simply: _Mellarks' _and underneath in neat script he added the line, "Fine Breads and Pastries since 1837."

It took five more years before our bakery could be considered a thriving success. Business was slow at first, but little by little, with Peeta's able hands punching dough, sculpting pastries and icing cakes, our reputation grew. I was thrilled to discover I enjoyed working alongside my husband as much as I loved sailing the seas with him. And I was still a fast learner and Peeta a patient teacher as he shared his secrets with me.

One cold December morning when Peeta was carefully shaping gingerbread men to display for the approaching holidays, I hinted to him that he might have cause to change the sign, should the baby I was carrying be a son. Once he stopped spinning me around the kitchen and grinning and laughing giddily, he told me firmly he would never change the sign. There would be no _Mellark & Son_ this time. It would just always be _Mellarks'—_a _family_ bakery.

Besides, he had smiled, if she was a girl—and he seemed instantly convinced she was— and anything like her mother, she very well might surprise people and want to follow in her father's footsteps. I wiped away tears as he kissed me gently and caressed my still-flat belly, murmuring quiet promises to our unborn child.

My name is Katniss Mellark. I am thirty-one years old. Fifteen years ago, I boarded a ship and took a journey that forever altered the course my life was supposed to take. I now have a doting husband who I adore, two beautiful children who bring me joy each day, and a lovely house that truly is my home.

A wise man once cautioned me to be careful of the wind I chose.

I think I chose wisely indeed.

_The End_

* * *

**_A/N: _**_I felt very strongly that only Katniss's and Peeta's story needed a resolution. The children's novel merely ends with her running away to the ship; a host of questions are left unanswered. Because we are in Katniss's point of view, we only know what she knows. And this is the ending I think she needed. I hope you agree. _

_A million thanks to the very loyal readers who have stuck with me since the very inception of this story, especially those special few who reviewed every chapter. But ALL your reviews and follows and PMs have been so appreciated. I would especially love to hear your thoughts now that the story has come to an end, so please, please share them with me! _

_ILoveRynMar and jeeno2, this story would not exist without you. I can't find the words to properly thank you. And I must thank Ro Nordmann and Kismet4891 for their artwork that accompanies this story and Pookieh for being such a wonderful friend and phenomenal cheerleader by always posting these updates to her tumblr since I'm a THG Luddite and don't play on there myself. _

_Historical fiction is a daunting genre to tackle—but the rewards are infinite. Please continue to support some of the amazing historical AUs in this fandom...including If This Be Treason, Make the Most of It; A House United; The Blind Date; Another Day, Another Dollar; Daughter of Samland, Son of Denmark; and We Have Brought Peace Onto You, among many others. _

_Keep an eye out for my other stories (I just posted a new one yesterday) and a collaborative effort from a few of my muses, streetlightlove and IzzySamson, and me. We are planning a treat for you all...just not sure when it will be ready yet._


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